In the Moonlight
by Haley94
Summary: A collection of missing scenes and new perspectives from the second-season episode, "Moonlighting."  Now up and cross-posted, scene #7 - Frank isn't the only one unable to sleep.  Contains major spoilers for "The Life We Chose."
1. Chapter 1

**In the Moonlight**

_**Author's Note:**_ Well, I'm back again, and once again come to you joyfully inspired after watching the most recent episode of Blue Bloods. This story is a collection of missing and re-imagined scenes from episode 2x09, "Moonlighting." I have quite a few of these in mind, and I intend to parcel them out to you over December and early January as we all enjoy the holidays and count down to the next new Blue Bloods episode on January 13. Hopefully these updates will put a smile on your face and bring some joy to your holiday season!

Although, now that I think about it, this particular story may be a little bit of a downer. It's hard to put a happy spin on Frank's nightmares, after all. I do hope you'll read and review anyway, though, and enjoy the scene for what it is. Lilynette, this one's for you!

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><p><em><strong>Scene #1 -<strong> What could possibly cause a man like Frank Reagan to wake up in a cold sweat at 4 a.m.?_

Windows had beckoned Frank Reagan ever since he was a child.

He loved a room awash in light, certainly, but there was something about the view windows afforded that had always called to him. There was something about being able to _look_. He had always needed to see what was happening around him with his own eyes, and the tight cinderblock rooms of the precincts early in his career had held no charms for him. He needed to be out on the street, in cold air and under open sky. Once rank and privilege had pulled him up into the higher stories of police work, sweeping views of his city had become the necessity. It was the reason he was drawn to the bold floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, even when there was nothing to see but the concrete and glass skyscrapers that held constant vigil as the backbone of New York City. He could see, and there was just something about seeing that had always settled the tension in his gut, bringing him a measure of comfort and confidence that he could find no other way.

And just as they brought him peace of mind and evenness of thought during the day, so did windows soothe him in the darkness, when the nightmares would come.

Silent, stoic, Frank stood barefoot on the cold hardwood floors of his bedroom, arms folded, standing at the window seat and staring out into the quiet darkness. Mary had always loved the window seat in their bedroom, and he could remember a hundred separate times she had curled up on the pillows there to nap, or stretched out to read to the kids when they were small, or had settled back and reached out a hand for him to join her, bathing him with that ready smile of hers. Her ghost was strong in the room; in the house.

He hadn't sat on that seat since he'd lost her.

Instead, he stood, and he looked.

The house was dark, as were all the houses along his street. There was nothing outside to catch his attention but the even, steady glow of the streetlamps.

But this time, he wasn't so much looking out as in.

If he was truly honest with himself, he couldn't remember a time in his life when he hadn't been haunted by nightmares. They were always with him, taunting him with the horrors that could come if he made even one misstep. He had always chalked it up to the ever-increasing levels of responsibility he held. But as life had taken its toll over the years, the nightmares had taken a more personal turn, and he would sit bolt upright in their aftermath, sweating and gasping for breath. Generally, by the time reality sank in and he understood where he was, the dreams had faded to nothing but vague echoes of terror, the last bits slithering off him and leaving only unease in their wake. Sometimes, he could remember voices... Mary, his parents, the kids... but more often than not, it was his own uncertainties that shook him the most, teasing him with the terrible things that could land at his feet, if only he made one mistake.

Frank took a deep, deep breath. The floorboards under his feet were real. The air in his lungs was real. The nightmares were not.

But two nights ago, he had dreamed of Joe.

His second boy. His jokester. The family peacemaker. Loving, vivacious, gentle. Frank had always joked that he could set his compass by the boy's generous heart.

His _son_.

And this time, he remembered every detail... because this time, they were real.

Their last family dinner together, when Joe had thrown peas at his older sister from across the table despite being a 32-year-old NYPD police officer, and had accused Danny of being a vampire for preferring his meat cooked medium rare.

The phone call that woke Frank from a deep sleep at 2:36 a.m.

Stumbling out the front door, his own father on his heels, to a waiting detail of black SUVs and bodyguards who looked as stunned as he felt.

The tense ride to the hospital, which he spent with his head bowed, cell phone clutched in his hand, his heart bleeding with fear and a silent prayer to St. Michael on his lips.

New York Presbyterian in the dark hours before dawn, uniformed and plainclothes officers spilling out of the doors and service entrances, their eyes shadowed and faces pale.

His deputy and lieutenant meeting him in the ER waiting room, the doctors just behind them.

His father's knees had given out; he remembered one of the sergeants from the 64th dashing forward to catch his arm and ease him down into a chair. The doctor's words had washed over him in a buzz of indecipherable noise and with and a cold confusion that Frank would later recognize as his own shock. Lips moving with no sound. Emotions swelling with no outlet.

And finally, Danny, standing alone in the hallway, a knot of detectives nearby watching him in deep concern but not coming close. Danny's eyes had been blown wide with fear, and he had stood there, alone and shaking and almost incoherent, staring rigidly at the doors to trauma room one.

Frank swallowed, hard, against the memories and walked back to bed, sitting down on the edge. He had no desire whatsoever to lay back, but he was bone tired - too tired for liquor, too tired to stand, too tired for anything but to sit and look at his hands.

For a while, after Erin had been attacked by Dick Reed, he had dreamed of that moment and wondered what might have happened had he not reached her in time. But there, at least, he could take satisfaction from the gun in his hand, the solid weight of it, and the kick when he pulled the trigger and saw the hole pop through the middle of the murderer's forehead. There was justice in that.

He ran a hand over his face and relished the feeling of his fingers pressing hard into his eyes. They were real, and it felt good.

He dreamed of Danny often, too, because there was nothing his son wouldn't do to protect those who needed it most... victims, children, people on hard times and hard luck. He put himself into the line of fire more often than Frank cared to consider, and certainly, he was sure, more often than he knew. Though it wore deeply on him, he knew Danny was who he was, and Frank had to let him be that protector, that guardian he was born to be. But God, the nightmares he had... the what ifs.

And then there was tonight.

Frank stood abruptly, moving with sure stride through the familiar darkness of the bedroom, hallway and stairs. The liquor cabinet really wasn't that far away.

And he needed a stiff drink for this one.

He remembered this nightmare, too, and in it he had been trapped in darkness, tangled in the sticky fog of an alley he didn't recognize. The grime had been thick, and a wan yellow light cast the entire scene of chipped brick and loose gravel in a sick light. He heard laughter, mocking voices, and managed to twist in the swirling blackness to see...

...his youngest son. Jamie, his face blood-soaked like it had been after the encounter at Disciples of Isaiah. His Jamie, on his knees and bent low in pain, fingers laced behind his head. Two shadowy figures lurked behind him, holding him still.

And from the darkness next to Frank, _right next to him_, Noble Sanfino separated from the black, stalking forward in a pressed Armani suit. A gun was held with easy confidence in his right hand.

Frank strained to reach him. He tried to make a sound.

Jamie's eyes were frightened, and they flicked from Noble's face to Frank's. "Dad, help me," he whispered.

Noble strode forward; dropped into a crouch in front of Jamie. He smiled. "Most people like to shoot traitors in the back of the head," he said, as casually as though they were sharing stories over a few beers. His face was inches from Jamie's own. "I like to make the fun last a little longer."

A sudden gunshot. It knocked Jamie clean off his knees, sprawling him onto his back in the puddles of the alley.

The darkness curled around Frank's shoulders, slipping into his mouth to choke off his scream.

His son was writhing in pain, twisting in the gravel. Noble stood, and stretched casually. Approached. The muzzle of the gun was smoking.

He aimed again.

A gunshot. Another. Frank flinched as violently as if the bullets were tearing through his own flesh and bone.

Then, like a sigh on the breeze, Noble disappeared, wisping away like smoke. Frank was suddenly able to move. He lurched forward, but his movements were slow-motion, as though underwater. He skidded to his knees and grabbed his son.

_Jamie._ He pulled him into his arms, there in the darkness. Three gunshots to the chest, center mass. His own vision was dimming, going gray at the edges. He could hear Jamie choking on blood.

Frank hauled Jamie back against his chest, curling his left hand over his clammy forehead and pressing his right against the wounds. He tried not to feel the warm blood leaking out between his fingers.

His son, dying.

And the darkness closed in.

So by the time Frank's fumbling fingers closed around the bottle he was looking for, they were shaking with fine tremors, and he didn't bother with a glass. Instead, he took the fifth with him to the front window of the living room, and looked out once more.

There was nothing he could do that he wasn't already doing. He knew that. He had surrounded himself with the best people, the most talented officers, the sharpest minds. And he had raised his children well, the same way his own mom and pop had raised him.

But so much was out of his hands. So much always would be.

So Frank Reagan did the only thing a father could do at 4 a.m.

He took a drink, standing vigil in the night, and he watched the eastern sky for the first hint of dawn.

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><p>Coming up later this week...<p>

_**Scene #2 -** Uncertain about Bianca's intentions and unnerved by the violent outbursts of Telsa and Noble, Jamie turns to his brothers for guidance. Both of them._

__Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note:** As always, thank you to everyone for the alerts, favorites and comments on this story. Reviews make my day and I treasure them, so a special thanks goes out to those who shared your thoughts on this work. I love the chance to write you back and answer your questions about the story, too, so I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this scene. Nicky1992, I wasn't able to thank you privately, so many thanks to you here. :) Now, without further ado, please enjoy...

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><p><em><strong>Scene #2 -<strong> Uncertain about Bianca's intentions and unnerved by the violent outbursts of Tesla and Noble, Jamie turns to his brothers for guidance. Both of them._

Danny should have known this night was too good to last.

For one thing, the sheets on the bed were _perfect_, and the sheets were never perfect. He held his sheets to superhuman standards ("Just one of the things I love about you," Linda would mutter sarcastically), and tonight they were worth the price of admission - crisp and cool tonight but not too cold, because Linda had been in bed for a while and had warmed them up just enough. The soft mattress felt divine under his tired muscles, and the spaghetti he'd enjoyed for dinner still filled him pleasantly. His lovely wife must have plugged in a new air freshener, too, because the bedroom smelled like rainwater and a fresh, cool breeze, and her skin - he rolled over and pressed his face into the back of her neck to be sure - yes, her skin smelled like peaches. It was a quiet night, a calm night, and he was at home in the perfect bed with the perfect woman, and his family was safe around him. Life just didn't get any better than this.

Then his cell phone rang.

Danny groaned, rolling away from Linda and fumbling blindly for a moment before his fingers closed around the device on his end table. He squeezed his eyes shut against its blaring, cheerfully lit blue screen and lifted the phone to his ear. "Reagan," he grumbled. An annoyed _this better be damn good_ lingered on his tongue, but he decided to keep it there until he heard who was on the other end of the line. Hard-won experience had taught him not to let his mouth get ahead of his brain if he could help it.

"Danny? It's me."

"This better be damn good," he replied, speaking the moment the voice registered. There was no bite to the words, though, because he was far too comfortable to truly be annoyed. Instead, he arched his back against the mattress, settling himself a bit deeper into the comfort of blankets and pillow. This was a good call, really. Shit this late was usually his captain chasing him out of bed on a case. Jamie at this hour, he would take any day of the week.

Speaking of the hour... he squinted over at the alarm clock on the end table. "You checked the time lately, kid?"

"Huh? Oh... oh man, sorry. I just got off work. I didn't realize it was so late."

Danny stretched a languid arm over his head. "How do you not realize it's this late?"

"I just got off _work_," Jamie repeated. "I've not been staring at a clock."

"There's a clock on your phone," he pointed out helpfully.

Jamie huffed. "I said sorry."

"I thought your undercover gig was regular, working-stiff hours. Doesn't Kramer know you turn into a pumpkin after midnight?"

"Very funny. I had a long day."

Danny's attention sharpened. "Any trouble?"

"No... no, just stupidity."

He smirked, relaxing his guard, and stifled a yawn with this back of his hand. "And I would absolutely love to hear about your long, stupid day, except I'll ask again. Have you checked the time lately?"

"Do you need to go? I'll let you go. Sorry."

Danny allowed his eyes to slip closed, debating that for a moment. It would be a damn fine thing to go back to the cradle of his pillow and the soft skin of his wife. But this was Jamie. And Jamie never called just to shoot the breeze. "Nah, you've already got me, kid. What's going on?"

"I don't want to keep you up."

"Jamie," he said tiredly. "I'm up already. I've been very pleasant so far but I will definitely get pissed if you hang up without telling me why you called."

"Fine."

And, silence. Danny put his free hand over his eyes and tried to will patience from somewhere. "Why are you just getting done with work?"

He could almost hear his younger brother's grimace. "I may have done something sort of stupid."

Yeah, this was going to be a conversation. Yawning again, Danny sat up in bed, letting the sheets pool around his waist as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He turned away from the phone, twisting back when he felt Linda's light hand settle against the small of his back. "What's going on?" she asked sleepily.

Danny turned to bend over her, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "Nothing. Just a call from Jamie. I'll take it in the living room. You sleep."

"You're staying?" she mumbled, already drifting off.

"Yep. You can't get rid of me that easy," he teased, and grinned when he saw her faint smile in the darkness. He dropped one more kiss on her cheekbone as she curved back into sleep, then stood, stretching. "You still there, kid?"

"I owe you a beer," Jamie said morosely.

"For what? Waking up Linda? She's just glad I'm not getting pulled into a case." He shuffled into the kitchen, ghosting a hand along the wall of the hallway as he went. "So what's the story? Heat get turned up on you in the boiler room?" He chuckled a little at his own joke.

Jamie's sigh was long and, Danny thought, a little exaggerated. "The boiler room was fine. I suck at it, but it's fine."

"So you called because you suck at being a sleazebag." He stepped into the kitchen, debated the overhead light, then decided to forego it, grabbing the handle of the fridge with his free hand instead. "Give me a line, then."

"What?"

"C'mon, give me a line. We'll rehearse." Danny pulled opened the refrigerator, ratting the bottles of salad dressing in the door as he squinted into the sudden brightness. Was it too late or too early for a beer? "You got a stock that's gonna light my pants on fire?"

"Do you want to know why I called you or not?"

"Sure I do." He seized a jug of apple juice and kicked the door shut behind him. "But are you sure you don't want to rehearse, kid? Sucking at that mob sweet-talk isn't exactly good for your cover."

"I couldn't be as slick as these guys are if I practiced for a million years. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths."

"And I look forward to busting the whole operation once the OCCB gets you out of there." Danny made his way into the living room, relaxing as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

"Well, that may be coming sooner than you think. I don't think I'm cut out for this."

Danny nodded sagely, dropping onto the sofa and tucking the phone against his shoulder in order to unscrew the jug of juice. "Well, next time I'll ask Dad to have you go undercover with the Occupy Wall Street protestors. I think those bohemians are more your speed anyway."

"You seem to really be enjoying yourself here."

"I always enjoy myself when I talk to you. Especially at twelve-thirty in the morning," he added pointedly.

This time, Jamie's sigh was long-suffering. "So Bianca and I went out after work tonight."

"Bianca? Who the hell is Bianca?" Danny took a long drink from the jug.

"Noble Sanfino's sister."

He spluttered a little. "His _sister_?"

"Yeah. I met her when I went to dinner with Noble last week."

"And now you two are going out? You sure _that's_ a good idea?"

"You're the one who told me I'm supposed to act confident around these guys! How's it going to look if I just blow her off?"

"I told you you need to play _tough_ with these guys, because that's what they're gonna expect," Danny corrected. "I never said anything about you making sure Jimmy Riordan has a solid love life. Especially with some mob chick."

"It would've been more suspicious if I said no."

Danny rolled his eyes, staring up at the darkened light fixture above him. "Keep telling yourself that. So what happened?"

"Well... we had a good time," he admitted. "She's nice."

"_Jimmy_ had a good time, or _Jamie_ had a good time?"

"Danny..."

"I'm just trying to get the full story here, kid." He took another swig. "She's hot, right?"

"I think that's a prerequisite to being a mob girl."

"Good point. So?"

"Y'know, we had a nice time."

He grinned. "I can _hear_ you blushing."

"Whatever," Jamie muttered. "Anyway, we were in the parking lot, yknow - saying goodbye-"

"Uh-huh."

"And Johnny Tesla shows up."

"That's Noble's buddy, right? The boiler boss?"

"Yeah. Turns out he and Bianca dated way back when. I guess he's still got a thing for her, because he was pissed enough to key her car."

Danny groaned, but it ended up coming out as more of a laugh. "That's going to make life fun for you at the office tomorrow."

"I know."

"Damn, kid, you've been doing this since high school. Remember when the captain of the basketball team found you in the band closet with his girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend. And shut up," Jamie said distractedly.

"So what're you worried about? Tesla firing you from your fake job?"

"No, I'm worried about Noble. Tesla's just a bully. I can handle him, but Noble... I mean, he's borderline bipolar. He gets crazy when he gets mad. Pissed isn't even going to describe it when he finds out about this."

"So who's to say he'll find out?"

"Tesla will tell him, for sure. And Noble already warned me off his sister once."

Danny sighed. "You sure know how to complicate life for yourself, kid."

"Tell me about it."

Danny took another long drink from the juice jug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just try to remember what you're there for, okay? Not to get into some pretty girl's pants, not to make friends. You do what you need to do for your assignment, and you do it the way I told you to. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"I'm going to tell you again anyway. If they give you mean, you give them mean right back. They expect you to be acting like somebody who's moved in these circles. You've got to stand up for yourself, whether they're pressuring you to make a sale or whether Tesla's in your face about this girl. They'll see right through you if you let them push you around."

"I know all that," he protested. "I'm trying to be Jimmy. The whole reason this started is because I don't think Jimmy would brush off a girl like that, and-"

"Jamie, the girl doesn't matter. Are you there to find a date?"

"No."

"Are you there to make friends?"

"No."

"Okay." Danny thunked the juice down onto the coffee table and lifted a finger into the air for effect, even though there was no one in the darkness to see him. "Every time you see this girl, I want you to remember those answers. If Tesla gets in your face, you get in his. If Noble gets pissed, you can apologize for not checking with him about this sister, but stand your ground. You can't fold up and you can't act scared, kid. You understand?"

"I guess."

"It's a means to an end, Jamie. You just need to stay close enough to tap into the information that the OCCB's looking for, and that's it. Don't make things any more complicated than they already are."

Jamie was silent, and Danny waited a few beats. "You still there?"

"Yeah." He sounded tired; defeated. "Tomorrow's going to suck."

"Well, if it's any comfort, you're not the only one who's going to have a crap day. Dad's got a new fixer, Sam Croft. Remember him?"

"Vaguely."

"We used to work together as rookies. Anyway, he and I get to drag some lifer mob boss around the city tomorrow to see if he can help us solve some murders that've been on the shelf for years. I fully expect to get shot at, at least twice. Should be loads of fun."

"Well, if this mob boss of yours knows the Sanfinos or the Cavazerres, tell him Noble says hi."

"That's the spirit." Shadowy movement in the doorway caught Danny's attention, and he looked up to see Linda lingering there, clad only in a nightslip and watching him with heavily lidded eyes. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to bed before my lovely wife thinks I abandoned her for the office again."

"Thanks, Danny. Take care of yourself out there."

"Hey, remember who you're talking to, kid."

"I remember," he fred back.

"Later," he said with a smile, ending the call with a click and meeting Linda's eyes. "Sorry about that, babe."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just little brother drama."

"My favorite kind." She stretched out a hand to him as he stood. "C'mon to bed."

"Yeah." He stooped to grab the juice.

"Leave it." Her hand remained outstretched, fingers wiggling. "Come to bed."

"Yeah?"

Her eyes sparkled in the darkness. "Yeah."

Danny stepped around the coffee table and moved to her with ease, catching her hand in both of his and dropping a kiss upon it. "Your wish is my command, m'lady."

Linda's smile was serene. "Damn straight."

A few miles away, Jamie snapped his phone closed and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside him, barely noticing when it took a bad bounce and disappeared between the far edge of the seat and the passenger door. The conversation with Danny really hadn't helped as much as he thought it might. Sometimes, talking to Danny helped soothe the jangly nerves in his stomach. Other times, he came out feeling even dumber than he had before he called.

Deciding he was somewhere in the middle this time, Jamie leaned his head back against the headrest and tried to sort out the threads of worry criss-crossing inside his stomach. He had worked hard, especially hard, to be tough with these guys. It hadn't come easily, because it certainly didn't come naturally, but he thought he was actually doing a pretty good job with the whole "confidence meets cynicism" vibe. If that was his biggest challenge, he would be doing just fine.

Trouble was, he had two challenges that were significantly nastier than that. One had shimmering red hair, eyes clear as glass and wore leather boots with a four-inch heel. The other was her slightly possessive, very much off-the-rails older brother with a half-crazed smile and mood swings to match. Add the jealous, oil-slick Tesla to the mix, and Jamie had himself a fine mess. Maybe even a terrifying one.

Jamie tightened his grip around the steering wheel of the Chevelle, feeling the comfort it brought. His father's car... Joe's. He had no doubt that they would know what to do. Danny, too. How had he, of all people, ended up here?

Wearily, he drew himself from behind the wheel and stepped out of the car, adjusting his jacket. Moonlight was all the light he had, but he didn't need anything else.

His footsteps were quiet. Night huddled close.

He had to do this. He had to find the confidence, the strength. He was a Reagan, after all.

Jamie stepped off the road into the grass, carefully picking his way along the path he knew so well.

He had come here almost every day, in the beginning.

Dropping to a crouch, Jamie placed a hand flat against the headstone, his eyes downcast. How many days had he been here? How many nights?

"Joe," he whispered. "Man, I could really use your help right now."

Crickets chirped in the grass at his feet, and dried rose petals, darker than blood, crunched beneath them. There was no voice on the breeze, but then again, what would Joe say if he could speak? _I'd help you, kiddo, but it's not like undercover work turned out all that great for me either._

But it wasn't advice that he needed from his brother, alone with him there in the darkness, the last bit of life among so much stillness. It was the quiet, comforting presence of just being close to him, just a breath away in the dark. And although the stone beneath his hand was cold, Jamie closed his eyes and breathed, and as always when he came to his brother...

...he felt at peace.

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><p>Next up (on Monday, I hope):<p>

_**Scene #3 -** There's never a better time to reflect than when you're lying bloodied and half-conscious in a parking lot._


	3. Chapter 3

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note** - The basketball incident I reference here was inspired by Danny's recollections in "Black and Blue." Thought I might as well take that idea and run with it. :) The quote late in the story comes from the first-season episode "Samaritan."

Also, thoughts and prayers go out to the family of NYPD Officer Peter Figoski, who was killed in the line of duty today in Brooklyn. The stories we share here are fun, but thousands of incredible men and women are living them every day as true heroes. God bless!

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><p><em><strong>Scene #3<strong> - There's never a better time to reflect than when you're lying bloodied and half-conscious in a parking lot._

Looking back, Jamie realized that he really should've seen this coming.

He had stepped out of the building easily enough. None of his shady co-workers had been peeking up over their computer monitors to watch his departure, and although he listened hard, he had heard no footsteps following after his own. Walking along the sidewalk toward the parking lot, he had forced himself to breathe deeply, to keep hold of the water bottle in his hands, to not break out into a half-crazed sprint for the car. No, he was Jimmy Riordan. Completely cool. Nothing to hide. If only he could get himself-

"Hey, Riordan. Wait up."

His heart had seized, hiccuping in his chest, but he was ready for this. He'd been formulating this plan for all of five minutes since he started gathering his keys and coat, when it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he would need a backup plan to slip the drive out undetected.

He had pulled the tiny device out of his front pocket, palming it and getting it into his mouth with a sleight of hand perfected in third grade with his Be a Magician! magic set. He gulped it down with a swallow of water. Fear was stirring in his bones, hollowing him from the inside out and making his skin flush cold. But the good news was, Tesla wasn't calling him on the swallow, and he prayed it had been undetected as he arranged his features into an expression of slight annoyance.

"I said, wait up!" Tesla snapped.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder, shoring himself up and putting as many bristles into the look as his thumping heart would allow. He definitely did not like the fact that Tesla had a goon with him. "I've got a date in the city," he replied, still moving towards his car. _Keep moving; don't let them stop you._ "And no, not with Bianca."

"Yeah," Tesla sneered. "I think you've got something that doesn't belong to you."

_Shit._ Well, he had to face it now. At least they wouldn't find the drive on him. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, turning now that he'd reached his car and facing Tesla and the goon head-on. Danny's words from the night before echoed in his ears, along with the rush of sound from his escalating blood pressure. _If they give you mean, you give them mean right back... you've got to stand up for yourself._

"I think you ripped a copy of the client list," Tesla said flatly, staring him down. Goon moved to flank Jamie as he spoke, and Jamie shot him a tight, cold look; the guy shrugged in response before glancing back to Tesla, waiting for the nod. "Maybe you don't like it here, but you don't want to leave empty-handed," Tesla finished.

Jamie looked him dead in the eye. "You're talking crap."

"Yeah," Tesla murmured. He looked away, gaze prowling the parking lot in what Jamie initially assumed was distaste for what he was about to do. Looking back on it later, he would understand it for what it really was - a scan for witnesses. "Empty your pockets," Tesla ordered flatly, squinting a little into the sun.

Jamie watched him boldly, letting his gaze be a challenge as it flicked from Tesla's set face to the expressionless Goon. _You can't fold up and you can't act scared, kid. You understand?_

He did, and he allowed himself the slight thrill, crazy after all these years but there just the same, that Danny would be proud of him for this. Another beat for effect, then Jamie slammed his water bottle down on the hood of his car by the windshield wipers, followed by his wallet, phone and keys. Then he stood, jutting his chin a little in defiance.

Tesla nodded, but the next words out of his mouth were hardly what Jamie was expecting. "All right. I'm going to frisk you."

Jamie's eyes narrowed, the cop in him starting to take over. "The hell you are," he snapped, halfway in character but halfway not.

Tesla simply grabbed his arm with an expression of some distaste and jerked him around forcefully, slamming him up against his own car and pulling his wrists behind him. Jamie yanked his wrists free but remained angrily where he was, annoyance taking over where fear had once lain, sucking his breath in between his teeth. "You're outside the building," Tesla said, his voice still disgustingly calm. "I've got a right to search you."

And Jamie knew it would be fine, because he had nothing on him to interest either of these idiots. They would find nothing, and he knew how it would go from there. Tesla would yank him back around, spit a few angry parting words into his face, then let him go with a final shove as he and the Goon stalked back inside. And then Jamie would be free to go with the perfect cover story. Man, Noble, that Tesla is a total jerk. He didn't trust me to tie my own shoes. I appreciate the gig, really, but I'm not looking to spend my days under that asshole's Ferragamos.

Except...

Except they already suspected him. What if this was just the start of his cover falling apart? And it wouldn't help that he was standing here like a pansy, letting this douche dig through his pants pockets.

_If Tesla gets in your face, you get in his... you can't fold up and you can't act scared, kid._

He felt Tesla duck low behind him, and his decision was made.

Jamie threw his left elbow back hard, smirking at the satisfying collision it made with Tesla's jaw. Rocked, Tesla stumbled back a step and released him, his expression open shock as Jamie rounded to square off against him. He felt a swell of satisfaction and waited for Tesla's grim, but approving, look.

Instead, he saw Tesla draw back, his shock melting to anger.

And then the tightly coiled fist was flying at Jamie's face.

...

When Jamie was ten years old, he had experienced what he thought then was the Worst Thanksgiving Day Ever. Oh, the meal had been wonderful (he really didn't remember it) and the football game on TV was pretty good (so they said), but all he could recall was standing trapped in the kitchen with his mom, Gram and sister, his nose smushed against a glass pane of the French door as he stared longingly at his dad, Grandpa, and older brothers playing a quick two-on-two pick-up game in the driveway.

Erin, then a slender eighteen and more beautiful than Jamie could have realized at the time, swatted at his backside with a dish towel. "You going to help us, kiddo, or keep messing up the windows?"

"I want to play," he complained, never taking his anxious eyes from the driveway. The four of them were laughing, smiling. The basketball looked like a tiny sphere of paradise, passed back and forth in their hands. Sunlight slanted over them as the afternoon wore late, bathing the scene in a warm and happy glow.

"I thought you wanted to help dry the dishes," his mom called from the sink, where she was elbow-deep in bubbles. "Do you not like your job anymore?"

"But there's only girls here," he complained, dragging one sneaker against the floor. "I should be outside with the boys."

He never saw the looks the women exchanged behind his head. "Are you sure you're not too little to play?" Gram asked.

Jamie whirled on her, his face dark. "I am not too little! I'll be in the sixth grade next year!"

"And the smallest kid in it," Erin murmured through her smile.

Mary sighed and gave him a firm look. "Ten minutes," she said, and raised her voice when he gasped in delight and scrabbled for the door handle. "Ten minutes, Jamie, and that's all!"

He had made a beeline for the driveway, darting up as Joe fetched the ball back from the bushes where it had bounced after an errant shot from Grandpa. "Mom says I can play!" he announced breathlessly.

"Well now, Jamie, do you think you're old enough to hang with us?" Frank asked, smiling down at his youngest.

"Forget old enough; look at him," Danny groused, leaning forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "He could be twenty-six and still not big enough to play."

Jamie scowled and stuck out his narrow chest. "I'm ten!"

"That still doesn't change the fact that you're a pipsqueak," Grandpa laughed, oblivious to Jamie's crumbling face.

Frank had opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by Joe, who dropped to a crouch in front of Jamie and tapped the boy's chest with the basketball. "Hey, how about you play on my team?" he offered. "Grandpa's too old to play. He needs a break before he breaks a hip."

"Hey now," Grandpa protested, but he backed off to Jamie's giggles. For his part, Jamie had jumped into the game with ridiculous enthusiasm, not much better at basketball than he was at touch football or baseball, but determined all the same to have his share. It all would have been just fine, and even a storybook end to a perfect Thanksgiving Day, had Danny not missed an easy layup. Snatching for the loose ball, he hadn't realized that Jamie's small shadow was right beside him, and he had brought a powerful elbow right back into his younger brother's face.

Jamie remembered none of it - not the meal, not the football game, and not the accident... nothing, outside of that idyllic view from the French door. Later, when he woke up in the emergency room too dizzy to turn his head and sick from the pain medication, he'd wondered if Gram's tuna casserole had actually given him food poisoning, as Danny had whispered it would. Joe had been the one to explain it all to him, that the shot from Danny had knocked him backwards and he'd cracked into the driveway like a bird shot out of the sky, the back of his skull taking the brunt of the fall as it bounced off the pavement. "There was blood _everywhere_," Joe had said, spreading his hands out as if to show the volume of the gore. Such gruesome details were usually Danny's purview, but he'd been heavy with the guilt factor for months after that, waiting on Jamie hand and foot. It had been quite nice, actually, especially since Jamie hadn't remembered a blessed thing except for the French door.

Well, that and the hands. He remembered the callused hands of his father cradling his face, and more hands pressing against the gash on the back of his head, trying to ease the flow of blood that had stained the whole back of his favorite T-shirt red. He remembered hands cradling his head and smoothing back his hair as someone fitted a neck brace around his throat, and he remembered the hands of his mother, stroking his cheek against the glaring flood of white and antiseptic smells of the hospital.

But here, his world rocked by Tesla's well-aimed fist... here, there would be no caring hands.

Reflecting on it later, Jamie would be surprised that it had taken only one blow to collapse him. In all fairness, though, he hadn't been ready for it at all. Tesla had swung that tightly curled fist to his face, and it landed true, bloodying his nose in a second and sending him sprawling onto the pavement. He caught himself on his hands, the pavement tearing into his palms; a knee dug deeply into his stomach. It could almost have been a dream, if not for that pounding of blood in his ears, back again, and the scream of adrenaline through his veins.

He couldn't allow himself to stay down. He'd grown up with two older, quite physical brothers who had taught him that lesson, and the Academy had drilled it into him besides. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, blood trickling from his nose, and curled his hands into his fists.

He wasn't going down that easily again. If Tesla wanted a fight, he would get one.

Jamie ducked the next punch that came sailing his way, and instead drove his own fist into Tesla's stomach before clamping his arms strongly around Tesla's body, trying to drive him back against the wall. "Enough!" he snapped roughly before he remembered himself. He had been careful not to use any of the holds he had learned in Academy; Tesla had no doubt been strong-armed by cops before, and the last thing Jamie wanted was to blow his cover now. But he had forgotten that he wasn't a cop trying to subdue a suspect here. Maybe he ought to bloody up Tesla's own face a little, just for good measure. Give as good as he had gotten, then try to get a little space between the two of them for tempers to cool.

But before Jamie could even begin to execute the plan, a pair of meaty hands seized him by the shoulders of his jacket, hauling him off Tesla. Shit, he'd forgotten all about Goon. The man locked Jamie's arms behind him in a vicegrip, hauling him back against a broad chest. Large fingers curled around his left wrist in particular, and squeezed so tightly around the fragile bones that Jamie nearly jerked free in surprise, his hand curling uselessly against the pain. He gasped and looked up-

Wow, Tesla looked _pissed_.

A heavy punch landed on his jaw, another against his ribs. Tesla fired a third shot that grazed his chin. With each blow, his knees grew weaker, pain and panic mixing in his greying mind. He could feel swelling already, blood already, and his body trembled from the punishment.

A left hook slammed into his cheekbone, and this time the pain was so sudden and overwhelming it took his breath away. Dimly, he wondered if the entire side of his face had just exploded. He staggered from the force of the blow, and he could feel Goon struggling to keep him upright, still jerking on his throbbing wrist. "C'mon, c'mon," Tesla snapped impatiently, as the Goon wrestled him into something approaching vertical.

Another punch - _pain!_ - and this time Jamie swayed so violently that Goon himself came loose, stumbling to the side. Jamie whipped his shredded face around, desperate to remain on his feet, when-

-the killing blow.

Tesla let fly with a single, final blast to Jamie's face. The hit was true and Jamie spun, limbs loose and balance gone. The ground rushed up to meet him, but it couldn't find him before the blackness did.

And looking back, Jamie realized that he really should've seen all this coming.

What a dumbass he was. Kramer was going to kill him, not to mention his father. And Danny. And Grandpa.

But Jamie's unconsciousness was not absolute, as he lay broken and bleeding on the asphalt. He could feel a presence above him, looming. Dark.

Huh. Maybe Kramer, Dad, Danny and Grandpa were going to have to get in line on that whole "killing him" thing.

Hands roughly jerked open his jacket. "What've you got, huh? What've you got?" somebody hissed. He couldn't open his eyes to see who it was and frankly didn't care anyway. His left wrist was afire and his face was battered; he choked on the blood pooling in the back of his throat. He wished the darkness would finish him off and not leave him strangling in this limbo of pain and confusion and... had he mentioned pain?

Motion next to him; someone was shuffling feet in the gravel. "Well, lucky you," a voice sneered. Tesla? He thought maybe it was Tesla. That seemed to make sense.

What was he doing here on the ground?

More footsteps, and a voice called out; he didn't recognize it, but it made his sore stomach tighten all the same. "We just gonna leave him here?"

"Leave him," Tesla confirmed, his voice fading. "Let that be a lesson, to him and everybody else."

Another pair of footsteps moved away, and Jamie was left in the silence, so quiet except for the blood pounding in his ears. So peaceful, except for the aching and awful pain in his wrist, in his ribs, in his bloodied face. He strained for the darkness, desperate to disappear into its waters, but the darkness pulled back from him like smoke caught in a draft.

He pulled in a painful breath, spat out some blood. The fog cleared a little.

Jamie Reagan. _Officer_ Jamie Reagan. Jimmy Riordan. Noble, Tesla.

The USB drive. The fists. The pavement.

He groaned, and grimaced at the flavor of blood on his tongue.

Oh yeah, they were all going to kill him. Especially Kramer. And his dad. And Danny.

Wait, but he'd done exactly what Danny told him to do. He'd stood up to Tesla; even gotten in his face a little.

The words came to him, unbidden. _So, Sarge, you taking good care of my little brother? ...Yep, the first thing I told him was to imagine what you'd do, and then do the opposite._

Well, crap.

Maybe he wasn't cut out for this.

He tried to move a little, but pain bit into his side and raced up to the throbbing of his face with tiny teeth that were quick and crazy and bit deep.

God, what was he going to do now? They would all be disappointed in him. Ashamed of him. He was the scrawny ten-year-old kid once more, too small to get off the porch and swatted down like a fly when he did.

Jamie curled his good hand into a fist. He wanted so much to believe that he could do this.

But sprawled on his back in a parking lot, his own blood bubbling from his nostrils, it was pretty damn hard to imagine.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong> - Sorry to leave things on a bit of a bummer there, but there's always a method to my madness. This will flow directly into our next scene, which should be up (fingers crossed) on Friday and goes a little something like this:

_**Scene #4, pt. I** - Badly beaten after his encounter with Tesla, there's only one place Jamie can think to go for help._

(P.S. - Cookies to any reviewers who can figure out where Jamie goes. Seriously, if you've been following my stuff you probably know, LOL. Thanks for reading!)


	4. Chapter 4

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note -** My apologies for not having this up sooner. I could use a lot less Real Life and a lot more writing time these days. :) This is the longest chapter I've ever written here, so hopefully that will ease the pain of waiting just a little bit. Be warned that language gets a bit salty in places, and you may or may not notice the concept I borrowed from "The Office." End disclaimer - enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Scene #4, pt. I -<strong> Badly beaten after his encounter with Tesla, there's only one place Jamie can think to go for help._

Consciousness had found Jamie before anyone or anything else, drifting over his battered body and probably considering him with a suspect eye before drawing him up. He had come back to himself through haze and fog, the discomfort distant at first but growing steadily more brilliant, before he finally emerged into a world that was pain and nothing but. Remembering where he was had been a chore, and hauling himself upright almost impossible, between the brittle cracking of his ribs and the splinters of late-day sunlight jabbing into his good eye. Somehow, he had managed to rally from the asphalt and lean his battered frame against the car tire next to him, swallowing down blood. He was still there, thinking about what a complete jackup he was, when Bianca arrived.

He had made sure that didn't last long.

"'Bye, Bianca," he had said flatly after their brief conversation, and turned away, trying to move as if every step didn't press the jagged edges of his cracked ribs together. She was still staring at him open-mouthed as he pulled away, and in the haze of pain that clouded his vision and rocked what was left of his balance, he couldn't tell if it was out of astonishment that he was leaving her or horror at the condition of his face. He hadn't seen it for himself yet, but he didn't need a mirror to know how bad it was. Since he had gotten himself vertical, blood was dripping steadily from his mouth and nose, and he could barely see out of his right eye for the swelling and the blurry red mist that he couldn't blink away. How much blood did one person have in them? Probably a lot more than this, but judging from what was already on the ground, smeared on his hands and stained on his shirt and jacket, he was definitely running a quart low.

He could still sense her standing behind him as he turned away, and he was relieved when she didn't grab at his elbow or lay hands against the back of his jacket. Frustration and shame were roiling in the choppy waters of his stomach, and the longer he stayed there, her eyes upon him, the more embarrassed he became. He had dared to like her, to appreciate the softness of her skin and her teasing, testing looks. He had let his guard down, and forgotten what he was there to do. What was he thinking? Was he really standing here, embarrassed that she had seen him bloody and beaten by these punks? He was _Jamie Reagan_, a rookie cop in wolf's clothing, and he had a job to do. The assignment was tough enough without him getting his heart involved, and while Bianca might have been a beautiful girl and more his type than he cared to admit, people like Tesla and Noble would always lurk in every shadow she cast.

He was turning away from her. He _had_ to turn away, and for good.

Turning away was also a good idea because he was thinking a little bit about throwing up, and it wouldn't be good to do that near her. Or on her.

_God_. His pride and his cover were the only things still intact, and even those were beginning to look threadbare.

Jamie reached for his door handle with his left hand and instantly thought better of it, barely strangling down the gasp when he tried to flex his fingers. Quickly, angrily, he snatched open the door with his right hand, but again was brought up short when he twisted his body to sit down and felt the fierce, furious protest of his ribs and bruised stomach. He closed his eyes and pushed through the bright fire-burst of pain, never more grateful to feel a seat under his body in his life than when he came to rest in the worn cloth driver's seat of the car. He gritted his teeth to get the door shut and turned over the ignition quickly, avoiding Bianca's wide eyes and stunned expression as he put the car into gear.

He'd had enough. Enough embarrassment, enough shame, enough pity.

Bianca wasn't even the worst of it. They had all believed in him - his father, Detective Kramer, and his grandfather too, whose eyes had lit with a special pride when he heard about the assignment Jamie was taking on. Even Danny had trusted in him, and while he may not have been happy about it, he had certainly believed Jamie could do it, and do it well.

So what had he done?

Come this close to blowing his cover. Gotten personally involved. Gotten his ass kicked. And even now, his stomach was probably digesting the data he'd risked life and limb to steal.

Jamie pulled out of the parking lot quickly, leaving Bianca standing there in the dust and gravel, staring after him with that open expression of shock that he couldn't look at again. He deliberately kept his eyes from the rearview mirror, focusing on putting as much distance between himself and the boiler room and Bianca and _failure_ as he possibly could. He gritted his teeth in frustration and almost yelped out loud when a sore spot he hadn't noticed on his jaw flared to life.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

There were a million answers to that question. Go home. Go to the station. Go to the hospital. Call Kramer. Call in. He tried to focus on any one of them, but none of the drifting options came quite close enough for him to catch. It was tough enough just to focus on the road ahead, and his breaths were coming in shallow pants as he blinked hard against the swelling skin of his face and sniffled on the blood that had yet to abate. His mind was foggy, locked in a sickening, slow-motion spin.

_You call me, kid. Anytime, anywhere. If you get in trouble, you call me, you understand?_

And almost before he knew what he was doing, Jamie thunked his left arm down on top of the steering wheel to keep the car steady, avoiding the painful damage to his wrist, and grabbed his phone to dial the number from memory. His fingers were shaking, but he ignored that just as he ignored his swimming vision and growing headache, which pulsed and pounded behind his eyes.

He had to make this call. Everything else would fall into place.

Danny would make this right.

...

Danny's day had gone just as terribly as he had expected.

Asshole mob boss that he somehow, some way, actually started feeling sorry for? Check.

Hearing every gory detail of the murders of men and women who had fallen at Barrone's hand, and knowing he would probably relive them in his sleep for a few nights? Check.

Vicious shootout in which he and Croft both probably should have been killed? Check.

Another year off his life? Check.

Danny wondered idly if he ought to start betting the ponies.

He was still waiting, somewhat impatiently, in the police parking lot at Sing Sing, standing by as Croft chatted with a couple of the NYPD cops. Some of the boys out of the 50th had liberated them a squad car to get them back to the city, since their own unmarked ride had ended up with a few new holes.

Danny's cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket, glancing down at the screen. He had barely acknowledged the caller ID when he noticed the time - holy crap, was it already after five? He needed to get on the road. Accepting the call, he socked Croft in the arm and made a quick motion for him to wrap it up. "Reagan," he said automatically.

"This is how you answer a call from your wife?"

"Hey, babe. Sorry, I know why you're calling. I didn't realize how late it was."

"You're not still working, are you?"

"Just finished. I'm about to get on the road." He turned to shoot Croft another warning look, then scowled when he saw the man taking a call of his own. "And no, I didn't forget about Jack's Christmas play."

"I knew you didn't."

"Then why are you calling? You know every moment I spend on the phone is a minute I could be driving home."

"As if talking and driving are mutually exclusive for you." She chuckled, and if the sound of her laughter made something in his heart go just a little soft around the edges, he would never admit it. "I just wanted to check in and make sure you survived the day."

"Barely," he snorted. "I'll tell you later." _An edited version, at least_, he added to himself wryly, as he moved to the cruiser he had been temporarily assigned. "Listen, I already worked it out with Croft that he's batting cleanup from today, so I'm headed your way. What time is the thing?"

"Eight, and it would be great if you could come home first."

Danny tried the door, suppressed an obscenity when he found it locked, and snapped his fingers at one of the nearby uniform cops, pointing at the handle and making a face. "Why can't I just meet you at the school?"

Linda snorted. "Do you even know which one it is?"

"Of course I know which one it is," he replied indignantly, snatching the keys out of the air on a soft lob from the apologetic officer. He gave the guy a quick grin of thanks. "It would be easier to meet you there."

"Yes, but then you would miss the photo shoot he's insisting that we do before we leave. Jack's excited about the shepherd costume he gets to wear."

Danny smiled again as he climbed behind the wheel. "A shepherd, huh? I guess that's better than the sheep he was last year."

"Like I said, he's excited. He wants you to see it."

"Yeah, I want to see it, too. I'm on the way, babe. I'll see you in an hour, okay?"

"Love you."

"Love you more." He ended the call and turned when Sam rapped on the passenger side window, then opened the door to poke his head inside. "What, you asking permission?" Danny asked. "Hop in. I've gotta floor it if I'm gonna drop you off before I get home."

"Go on without me," Sam replied. "I just talked to your dad's office. I need-"

"You mean the Commissioner's office?" Danny interrupted, shooting Sam a droll look.

He smirked. "I forgot how much you enjoy mixing business and family on the job."

"It helps keep things a little cleaner."

"What I was going to say was, I need to head straight back to headquarters. Something's come up with the IRS investigation your- the Commissioner is working on. I'm going to grab a ride with one of the officers over there."

Danny shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Sam nodded and started to duck out of the car, but Danny stopped him. "Hey, Sam?"

He leaned back into the car, eyebrows lifted.

"Nice job today. Seriously. Thanks for having my back out there."

Sam grinned. "Thank _you_ for having mine. And for sticking me with the paperwork."

"Next time's on me." Danny grinned as Sam slammed the door.

When his phone rang again moments later, Danny was already flying south on the Bronx River Parkway, trying not to be distracted by all the high-tech gadgets the squad car boasted. He picked up his cell phone from the seat next to him, frowning at the unfamiliar number before accepting the call. "Reagan."

"Danny?"

"Hey, what's going on, kid?" He squinted up at the sun through the windshield and wondered how bad traffic was going to be getting back into the city. "How did the day go? 'Cause I know mine was worse. I hope we had a bet going on this one, 'cause I guarantee you I won."

Silence. Danny's brow furrowed once more and he glanced to his left, wondering if he'd just driven into one of AT&T's dead zones. "You still there, kid?"

"Yeah... what did you say?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "Never mind. I'll tell you later."

"Okay. Danny, I need a favor."

He frowned, pushing away the distractions of the freeway to listen closer to his brother's voice. He sounded a little distant, distracted. There was something... off, somehow, but he couldn't put a finger on what. "Are you still working? This is your burn phone, isn't it?"

That seemed to wake Jamie up. "Oh, shit! Yeah- I didn't realize. I'll call you back."

A click in his ear, and Jamie was gone.

Danny sighed and ended the call on his end, too. "Rookies," he muttered. _And undercover rookies at that_, his mind added, and he pushed the call from his thoughts.

But a note of unease, soft and sharp, lingered.

...

When Jamie realized what he had done, he couldn't end the call fast enough. One damn mistake after another, this time calling his brother - an NYPD detective - from his undercover phone. He barely resisted the urge to slam his fist against the steering wheel and concentrated instead on the pain in his ribs, which grated with every breath. Kramer had his tech team monitoring every call Jamie made; he was going to chew him a new one over this.

Between his frustration and growing misery, the adrenaline on which Jamie had been running finally gave out somewhere west of Pennsylvania Avenue, about twenty blocks from where he'd started. The area was run down, with small apartment buildings huddled on one side of the pavement and towering, bleak tenements on the other. It was too early yet for there to be much activity on the street, which was exactly what he was looking for. He only needed to get out of the neighborhood, and get someplace where the BMWs and Mercedes of his co-workers didn't cruise. He was far enough away to let his guard lapse, now, and let it lapse he did. He guided the car to a bumpy stop against the curb, managing to get it into park and kill the engine. Pain was settling over him in waves, centered in his swelling face. Blood still dripped steadily down over his lips, splashing in long, gruesome trails on his shirt and silk tie, and against his left hand where he cradled it protectively against his chest. He sucked in another painful breath and rested his head back against the seat, scrubbing a hand under his nose to wipe away the mess.

He couldn't stop here for long. He knew that. He needed to get somewhere safe.

But he allowed his single good eye to slip closed, and when the thin trickle of blood ran from his nose again, he was already gone.

...

Danny was almost halfway home when his cell phone rang again. Swearing under his breath, he managed to snag it while keeping his car in the fast lane, which was no small feat. He didn't bother with caller ID, keeping his eyes on the road. "Reagan."

"Detective Daniel Reagan?" The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar, but had a snap of authority that he recognized as uniquely NYPD.

"The one and only," he replied, keeping his voice cheerful. _This better not be some bull that's gonna keep me from Jack's play._

"This is Detective Kramer out of OCCB. Did you receive a call from your brother about ten minutes ago?"

He frowned, trying to absorb the unexpected information. "Yeah, I did. Why?"

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." He switched the phone to his left ear, catching it between his cheek and shoulder. "What's going on?"

"He's missed his safety check-in."

Danny felt a sudden, unexpected chill, as if the temperature in the car had plummeted twenty degrees. Even the skin prickled along the back of his neck, tightening of its own accord. "What?"

"He has missed his safety check-in," Kramer said dryly, enunciating the words. "Our technical office checked his cell phone for activity in the last hour, and they said his only call was to you."

"Yeah." Danny's mouth had gone dry, and he could barely force out the word. "He did. What-"

"Was he in distress?"

"Distress?" He couldn't think. There was a strange buzzing in his ears that had nothing to do with his cell phone reception. The odd feeling that had lingered earlier returned full force, painting the bottom of his stomach in ice. "I don't know. We didn't talk long."

Kramer spoke again, slowly, as though Danny needed the extra spaces between words to digest what was being said. "And what did he say?"

The detective's overly patient, patronizing tone freed Danny's tongue. "He didn't say anything!" he snapped back. "I asked him why he was calling from his burn phone. He acted like he didn't even realize he was. He hung up almost as soon as he called."

Kramer sighed. "All right. Well, at least we know he's alive; that's good."

"Yeah, I would say that's good!" Danny shouted back. "Christ!"

"Detective, I'm not trying to be callous. My job is to make sure that your brother is safe and that his cover is intact. That's what I'm trying to do. If he calls again, dial my office at this number-"

"Slow down," Danny interrupted. "What kind of trouble do you think he's in?"

"He may not be in trouble at all. Missing a safety check-in is unusual, but it isn't unprecedented. He may be in a situation where he simply can't call, or he may need assistance. That's what I'm trying to get to the bottom of now."

"Do you know where he is?" Danny demanded. He was ready to take the car across all six lanes of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway if he had to, and his free hand, now sweaty in the palm, clenched around the wheel.

Kramer sighed. "He was in the vicinity of Johnny Tesla's shop when he contacted you. I've asked the undercover officers in the area to sweep the immediate blocks, but they haven't found anything so far." His voice was dry, tired. "It's really too early to worry, Detective. But if your brother happens to call you again, do me a favor and remind him that he really needs to be calling me."

Danny bit into his lip, hard. One missed check-in was hardly reason for concern; he knew that. But it wasn't like Jamie. "What can I do?"

"You can let me know if he calls you again."

"No, I mean what can I do right now? Give me the address of where he was working. Or can you track his cell phone?"

"Detective, this is not a Hollywood movie plot. If Officer Reagan misses his second check-in in an hour, or if we can't contact him in that time, I'll elevate this to a level that may or may not include you. For now, please let me know if he calls you again?"

"Kramer," Danny said, fighting hard to hold his tongue. "Give me one reason I shouldn't call my father about this right now."

"Your brother is working a sensitive undercover case that could help us break open one of the largest organized crime operations in this city," Kramer replied, not even pausing to take a breath. His voice was still infuriatingly calm and even. "Any elevation of this investigation into his current whereabouts, particularly to the Office of the Commissioner, could jeopardize his cover and destroy the case. Is that good enough?"

"And what if his cover's already jeopardized?"

"We have no evidence of that, Detective. You need to trust me to do my job right now."

Danny tried to swallow his rage, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. "You do understand that this is my little brother you're talking about."

There was a pause. "I do. Thank you, Detective."

Danny nearly broke the phone ending the call.

...

Jamie opened his eye - the only one working at present - and was startled to see that the sun had moved, dropping in the western sky like a rock. Had he fallen asleep? Surely he hadn't. He couldn't fall asleep here. No telling when he would wake up, and the local company to find him probably wouldn't be friendly.

He tried to straighten, and gasped at the flare of razor-edged pain in his chest and arm. Gritting his teeth, he managed to grab his cell phone off the seat next to him, peering at the screen closely. He'd missed six calls, but he didn't care to return them. Instead he flipped it open, and managed to dial the number he knew so well.

...

Danny had flipped on his lights and sirens and was flooring it on the Queens. Kramer's callous words were ringing in his ear, and he was still clutching his phone in his hand, debating whether to call his father, when it vibrated suddenly.

The number. Jamie's number.

He grabbed the call. "Jamie?"

"Danny," he replied. His voice was tight, pained.

"Are you all right? Where are you?"

"I'm okay."

"Tell me where you are."

"It's okay."

"Jamie," he said, a pleading, desperate note entering his voice.

Then he remembered.

The code.

They had set one up for exactly this circumstance, over the dinner table with his dad one night. _You never know, Jamie_, his father had said when Jamie had scoffed at the absurdity of such a precaution. _You never know, and you have to be safe._ What the hell was it?

_Threat level. Morning, noon, afternoon, midnight - from best to worst._ Jamie had insisted that if he had to come up with a code, it was going to be a fun one.

"What's our threat level, kid?" he demanded, swearing under his breath as he was forced to break for slower traffic ahead. "Tell me what's going on. Tell me what time of day it is, Jamie."

Danny's imagination, always wilder than he'd let on, served it up unbidden. Jamie's cover was blown. They were with him now, standing over him with a gun in his face, or tucking the muzzle behind his ear, pressing hard enough to bruise the bone. He was in trouble and this might be the only chance Danny had to help him, to save him. And Danny was no rookie; he wasn't new to this sort of thing. He knew how it could go. What if it was already too late? What if...

...What if this was the last time he would ever hear his brother's voice?

And everything came crashing down upon his head in an instant, fear and panic and fury, absolute fury, with himself that he had ever let Jamie do this, my God, he was a kid, what did he know about going undercover, how could they have let this happen, how could he manage to lose the only two brothers he was ever going to have-

He heard Jamie's breath catch, and his stomach dropped straight into his shoes. "Goddammit, kid! Talk to me!"

"It's not that," Jamie said. His words were slurred.

"It's not what? Kid, you've gotta give me the code," he begged, slowing and cussing again as traffic ahead of him attempted to merge out of his way. "Can you tell me where you are?"

"Danny," Jamie said, and blew out what sounded like a frustrated sigh. "I'm okay. Nobody's with me."

"I'm gonna find that a hell of a lot easier to believe if you can string more than three words together at a time."

"I'm clear," Jamie managed. He sniffled, and it sounded soggy. "I'm alone. In the car."

"What happened?" he demanded. "Talk to me, Jamie. Is your cover blown?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes. My cover's okay."

"Are you in danger?" Danny was snapping off the questions fast, firmly, knowing he was barely giving Jamie time to answer but unable to help himself. His senses were screaming at him that something was _wrong_, and he couldn't shake them - knew better than to try.

"I don't think so. Not now."

"Not now? Kid, I swear to God I'm gonna reach through this phone in a minute-"

"I got out," Jamie said. "I'm out, but I need your help."

"For what? Where are you?"

"Uh... Rockaway and... I don't know."

"You've gotta give me more than that, kid."

"Sutter."

"That's the cross street? Rockaway and Sutter? Brooklyn?"

"Yeah."

Danny checked his GPS and thanked God for the traffic at this hour. It wasn't far; thank God, it wasn't far. He could be there in five minutes. "Okay, I'm on my way. Kid, Kramer just called and said you missed your check-in. What happened?"

"I screwed up."

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad."

"Tell me what happened."

"I screwed up," Jamie replied. His voice was fading.

Danny resisted the urge to hit something; break something. "Kid, you've gotta give me more than this. Are you hurt? Do I need to call out the cavalry?"

"No, I'm okay."

He eyed the police radio in his car. _No, can't put this out over general channels. I've gotta get hold of Kramer._ "Kid, can I call you right back? I need to let your boss know where you are."

Silence.

He gripped the phone so hard he nearly cracked the casing. "Jamie?"

But there was nothing, and Danny listened to that empty air all the way to Atlantic Avenue six blocks away, cutting his lights and sirens but not daring to sever the connection to his brother. He listened to the empty air as his eyes frantically scanned the streets for the car Jamie had described to him on a whim one day before dinner, when they were filling the air with stupid comments, and he had made a throwaway remark about his crappy little silver Nissan Maxima, a description that Danny was now clinging to. He listened to the empty air until he saw the car, and barely remembered to throw his own into park before he leapt out, gun in hand without even thinking about it, scanning the area for threats as he crept up on the driver's side, steeling himself as he came to the window-

-and looked in at his little brother, slumped behind the wheel, still and silent and covered in blood.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note -<strong> Sorry to leave it there, but remember, reviews make me write faster. ;) Won't you leave me one as a Christmas present? If you do, I'll return the favor - look for a special one-shot coming up before the holiday, and part II will also be along soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note -** Sorry for making you wait for this, but I wanted to get "Breathless" done and posted before Christmas. As an aside, I can't believe how many of you asked for a follow-up piece to that. So, that's in the works! But now it's time for more "In the Moonlight," so here we go. This chapter picks right up where we left off last week. It's actually longer than the last one, and the last one was long as hell. This madness has to stop!

As an aside, I had two fun Blue Bloods moments today. Moment #1 was in Target, when I saw the first season DVD for sale and had to talk myself out of buying it using the argument that _I already had it_. I still wanted it, for some reason. Moment #2 was a five-second promo on CBS that featured nothing but Frank, Danny, Erin and Jamie walking toward the camera. I want someone to turn that into a GIF for me so I can watch it over and over. All they did was walk towards the camera, and I'm flying to check my calendar to see if it's January 6 yet.

Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews, including yours, Fanfictionfrendie, since I can't reply to you on FF net. It means the world to me to know that this story is being read and enjoyed, and I love hearing what you think.

Without further ado...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Scene #4, pt. II -<strong> Badly beaten after his encounter with Tesla, there's only one place Jamie can think to go for help._

For a second, Danny just stared, because what he was seeing was incomprehensible.

His little brother, slumped and silent in the driver's seat of a crappy Nissan, his chin tipped down against his chest and blood smeared everywhere that Danny could see - on his face, across his hands, on his shirt. It was his _brother_, bloody and still and alone.

Danny jolted into motion again a second later, and when he did, he moved as fast as he'd ever moved in his life.

He scrabbled for the door handle first, yanking it so hard it stung his fingers and nearly caused him to pop the cheap assembly off completely. But the door was locked, and he slammed his fist against its metal frame once, twice, trying with more than a hint of frustration (_fear?_) to jar his brother awake.

That wasn't working either. Jamie remained where he was, head down, and Danny's gaze kept going back to the blood. His heart was racing, thudding its way out of his chest with a raw panic he could barely control because his little brother was in there, and God help him, he wasn't waking up. In fact, with his head dropped the way it was, Danny couldn't even tell how bad off he was, and he needed to know. Now.

He pressed his fingertips against the glass for a single, desperate second, then made his decision. Darting around the front of the car - he checked the hood as he passed; it was cool, Jamie had been here a while - he circled to the passenger door and took his gun in his hand, grasping it from the side around the barrel and trigger guard. Using his left arm to protect his face, he hauled back and brought the broad side of the weapon smashing down into the window. It shattered instantly with a satisfying pop, spraying crystals of safety glass across him and down onto the tattered passenger seat inside the car. Ignoring the fragments, Danny reached in, popped the lock, and yanked the door open.

He was inside and cradling his brother's face in his hands a second later.

The glass didn't matter. His weapon, unsecured and discarded on the floorboard, didn't matter either. What mattered was his brother's cool, blood-slicked skin under his fingers, and the fact that when Danny cupped Jamie's face in his hands, bringing himself face to face with his own worst nightmare-

-his brother moved sluggishly in response. Danny could see his eyes moving behind the closed lids.

He took that moment to thank God above that he didn't have to check his little brother for a pulse. Thank God, thank God for that.

"Hey," he said, and had to clear his throat to get any real volume. "Hey, kid. Talk to me, huh?"

Jamie did not. Biting his lip, Danny eased his thumbs under Jamie's chin, carefully drawing his head up. The movement gave him his first clear, full-on look at Jamie, and it turned his stomach. Jamie's right eye was swelling shut, dark with black bruises that spread down onto his cheek and up over his eyebrow. Blood looped back from his nose to his ear and was drying in dark patterns over his chin and down his neck. His left cheek was cut, gouged by something, and an awful, vivid bruise was swelling the left side of his forehead.

Danny sucked in a breath as Jamie's head rested, loose and heavy in his hands. "Jamie," he managed, trying to get the words past the emotion in his throat. "Kid, come on. Open your eyes."

Jamie groaned, and Danny winced, peering closer, wishing he could find a place to touch that wasn't bruised or bloodied. "Kid, it's me. Are you with me?"

Jamie grunted weakly in acknowledgement, but didn't open his eyes. "Danny," he slurred.

"Yeah, I'm here," Danny said, letting the relief shine in his voice. "God, kid. Where else are you hurt?"

Jamie's left eye fluttered open - the right one already seemed too swollen to move - and Danny shifted, making sure he filled his brother's limited range of vision. "Hey. I'm right here, kid. You need to tell me where you're hurt, huh?" Because now that Jamie was a) definitely breathing and b) conscious, hidden injuries were Danny's next priority. The military had drilled the protocol into him, and police training had polished it off. If his brother had been shot, stabbed, or was actively bleeding somewhere that wasn't glaringly obvious, he needed to know about it.

Jamie's glassy gaze finally found him; focused on him. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself. You look like you caught the business end of a freight train here, kid."

One corner of Jamie's battered mouth quirked up, and Danny gently leaned his brother's head against the seat before reaching back to run his fingers over Jamie's skull, through his hair, then down along the back of his neck. Finding nothing remarkable, he then reached inside Jamie's jacket, checking him over quickly. "What're you doing?" Jamie asked, swallowing and struggling to pull away.

"Making sure you're not bleeding to death. You wanna help me out a little?"

That seemed to stir Jamie back to himself. "I'm fine," he managed, and batted away Danny's hands. "I'm _fine_, Danny," he added, a twinge of annoyance curling his voice. "I got... beaten up, not gutted. For Chrissakes."

Danny pulled back, frowning. Lord knew he was always ready for a fight, but he wasn't able to maintain his self-righteous indignance for long. "What, you're gonna say that to me now, kid? After that phone call you made?"

"What phone call?" Jamie struggled to sit up the rest of the way, grimacing as he did. He reached for his chest with his right hand but Danny saw the movement and got there first. Finding no blood, he pressed quickly, experimentally against the curve of his brother's ribs, then winced in sympathy when Jamie sucked his breath sharply in through his teeth. "Stop!"

"Sorry," Danny said, aware that he didn't sound very sorry but hardly caring at this point. "They feel broken, or just cracked?"

"Cracked, I think." He grasped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white as he breathed lightly through the pain.

"You gonna tell me what happened, or are you gonna make me guess? Did your cover get blown?"

"No."

"Then what happened? Who did this?" he asked, lifting a cautious hand to ghost his fingertips over the swollen skin of Jamie's eye.

Jamie grimaced but, to Danny's surprise, he didn't pull away. Instead, he sighed, lifting his right hand slowly and pressing the heel of it against his temple. "Tesla."

"Tesla?" Danny bit his lip again, processing that as he dropped his hand onto Jamie's shoulder, squeezing it. He meant the touch to be reassuring, but he tightened his grasp involuntarily when a sudden, unwelcome thought occurred. "Did you get your ass kicked because of Noble's sister? I swear to God, Jamie-"

"No," he snapped, then grimaced, curling his fingers gingerly over his own forehead. "No, I finished the assignment."

"What assignment?"

He didn't reply, and Danny barely resisted the urge to shake him. "Jamie!"

"God, stop yelling," he muttered. "My head is killing me."

Danny looked critically at Jamie's face again, taking in the swelling and bruising. "You've got a concussion," he realized. That explained why Jamie was weaving in and out on him; a head injury, not blood loss. Not great, certainly, but it could've been a hell of a lot worse. "Focus for me, kid. What assignment did you finish?"

"I was supposed to download a copy of the client list. Use a flash drive to smuggle it out," he managed.

"So you did?"

"I did. Today. Tesla was suspicious. He and some friend of his jumped me in the parking lot."

"They found the drive?"

"No." Jamie cracked open his good eye and turned to pin Danny with a glare. "This happened when I tried standing up to them about it. Great advice, by the way."

Danny ignored the barb. "How did you end up here?"

He closed his eye again, wearily. "They left. I got the hell out."

A million questions hovered on the tip of Danny's tongue, but he swallowed them back. There would be time for all that later. Right now, only one thing was important. "We need to get you to a hospital."

Jamie sighed, turning his swelling face away from Danny. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine." Danny fumbled in his pockets for his phone, then swore when he came up empty. He must have left it in the squad car. "Stay put, kid. I'm gonna call a bus."

He turned away, grasping the door handle, when a sharp yank on his coat pulled him back. Surprised, he turned to see Jamie clutching onto his sleeve, keeping him put inside the car. His eyes were still closed. "Stop."

"Jamie-"

"I don't want an ambulance. I'm fine."

Swallowing down as much of his flaring impatience as he could, Danny leaned back over and put a finger in his face. "Listen to me. You are going to the hospital if I have to pick you up and carry you there myself. Do you know what I've been through in the last half-hour? Do you know what I've been through _today_? You're not fine until I say you're fine, and right now I say you're going to the hospital. That's that!"

Jamie had blinked his left eye back open about halfway through the tirade, and now observed Danny wryly. "I didn't say I wouldn't go."

"Then shut up and let me take care of this!"

"I don't want a _bus_," he replied flatly, releasing Danny's sleeve but only after an added yank for emphasis. "I'm not dying."

Danny glared. "Could've fooled me."

Jamie didn't reply, and with another string of expletives Danny retrieved his gun from the floorboard and shoved open his door. "Unlock that," he ordered, jerking a thumb at the driver's door, and he stalked around the car as Jamie reached over slowly to fumble with his lock. Danny made it to the driver's side with plenty of time to spare, and he parked his hands on his hips, watching as Jamie reached across himself with his right hand and finally managed to pop the lock. Shaking his head, Danny pulled open the door, observing his brother critically. "You're a mess."

"Thanks," he muttered, carefully turning his body toward the open door and taking careful, shallow breaths.

Danny frowned. "Can you stand? Here," he said, and reached down, wrapping a hand around Jamie's left wrist to guide him.

Jamie made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a scream, and Danny released him like he'd grasped fire, jumping back a step. "What? What?"

Jamie had drawn back sharply inside the car, his left hand drawn up protectively against his chest. Grimacing, he braced his right arm across the steering wheel and curved forward over the arm, letting his forehead bump against the horn. "_Shit_, Danny," he gasped.

"What?" He was dumbfounded. "What'd I do?"

Jamie was gulping in deeper breaths. Sweat had popped out on his forehead. "I did something to my wrist."

Guilt washed in, engulfing Danny's impatience. He swallowed and dropped to his knees on the pavement, putting himself at eye level with his brother. "Hey, kid," he said softly. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"I don't want an ambulance," he snapped.

"Yeah, well, I think an ambulance might want you," he observed. "You look like just the sort of patient they like to eat and then spit out at the nearest ER."

Jamie leaned back, his teeth gritted. "You think you can take me?"

"Yeah," Danny assured him. It wasn't worth the argument at this point. He leaned forward, putting a careful arm around his brother's back. "C'mon, lean on me," he urged, and managed to ease Jamie out of the car, supporting his weight. "Okay?" he asked once they were both standing, tugging Jamie's good right arm gently over his own shoulders.

Jamie nodded, though he looked a little dazed. "Yeah, okay."

Steadying him, Danny managed to get Jamie back to the squad car, pulling open the passenger side door and easing him down as gently as he could. "How you doing?"

"Fine."

"Fine, of course," he groused, but there was no malice behind it. Danny leaned across Jamie to snag his phone from the center console, then looked his brother over with a critical eye as he drew back. The swelling in his face was worse, but at least he seemed a bit more aware of where he was and what was happening around him. "Stay here a second," he said, and double-checked that Jamie was safely in the car before slamming the door. He took a moment more to pin a deadly glare on a couple of passers-by who had paused to watch the activity with interest, and as they moved on, he grabbed his phone and dialed dispatch.

"Seventy-first precinct. Officer Mellilo speaking."

"Yeah, this is Detective Daniel Reagan," he said, and spit out his badge number. "I need you to get in touch with King's County for me. Let them know I'm bringing in an undercover officer who's been injured." He listened; gritted his teeth. "No no, no units necessary. Everything's under control. He just doesn't need to be sitting around in public with anybody from this neighborhood right now... okay. Yeah, yeah, that would be great. Thanks."

Ending the call, Danny took a another glance over at his brother. Jamie had flipped down the sun visor and was blinking into the mirror on the reverse side, taking in his battered face.

Danny took a deep breath. He had one more call he needed to make, and he wasn't looking forward to it in the slightest. Checking his phone's history with reluctance, he pulled up the number and punched it through, steeling himself.

The phone rang once, twice, then picked up.

Danny grimaced. He'd really been hoping for voicemail.

"Detective Kramer," the unflappable voice said in his ear.

He swallowed down the bitterness on his tongue. "Kramer, it's Reagan."

"Detective?"

"Jamie's with me," he said without prelude. "I'm taking him to King's County."

He heard the scrape of a chair against linoleum as Kramer stood. "What's his situation?"

Danny bristled. "His situation? How about what's his condition, huh? I tell you I'm taking him to the hospital and that's what you ask me?"

"Detective," Kramer interrupted. "Take a breath and tell me your brother's situation."

Danny forced himself to stop. There would be plenty of time to tear into Kramer later; there were bigger concerns at the moment. "He's beaten up pretty badly. I think he's got a concussion. He told me that he completed his assignment, though. He got some sort of drive out of the boiler room for you."

Kramer released a breath. "Where is it now?"

"I have no idea. I guess he has it somewhere." Danny's eyes landed on the Nissan. "Can you get somebody out here to pick up his car? It's at Rockaway and Sutter in Brooklyn."

"I'll take care of it. And I'll meet you at King's County. You should call ahead-"

"I already did."

"No ambulance," he added. "Move quickly and surreptitiously, detective."

Danny opened his mouth to respond when he heard the click of the call ending in his ear. "Dickhead," he muttered. God knew if Jamie really needed a bus, he would have one, despite whatever Kramer might be worried about. He looked back at the car again. Jamie had flipped the visor back up and was sitting back in the seat, rubbing at his head once more. Danny moved around to the driver's side and climbed in, casting his brother with an apprehensive glance. "You ready to go?"

He nodded.

Danny didn't speak until they were on the road. "The hospital's only about five minutes away. I called ahead; they should be waiting for us."

"Who else did you call?"

Danny glanced over. He hadn't been aware Jamie was paying attention while he was hollering into his cell phone on the sidewalk. "I called Kramer. In typical OCCB fashion, he's more worried about that drive you were talking about than whether you're still in one piece."

"Yeah," Jamie said. "I'm a little worried about the drive, too."

Danny shot him a quick, puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

Jamie snorted a little. "You know how I hid that thing, don't you?"

He opened his mouth to respond, then understanding dawned. "Oh geez... you didn't."

"Of course I did."

Danny laughed, despite himself. "Your talents never fail to amaze me, kid."

Jamie closed his eyes. "I should've just hung onto it. It'll wind up being useless now."

"Yeah, well, if you had just hung onto it, Tesla would have found it, right? Who knows what might've happened then." Danny felt his own stomach tighten at the implication of those words. _Who knows what might have happened then..._

He pushed the thought away. There would be a time. It wasn't now.

Jamie snuffled in blood next to him. The sound was disgusting. "You don't have a Kleenex, do you?" he asked.

"I don't think so. If this were my car there would be McDonalds napkins in the glove compartment, but I don't know how the north precinct guys roll."

"Never mind." He leaned his head back, cradling his arm to his chest again. "Why are you in a squad car, anyway?"

"Long story."

"Yeah?"

"Looooong story," he sighed. "I'll tell you later."

Jamie nodded, then grimaced suddenly. "Hey... do me a favor, would you?"

"Yeah, I know. Sorry about the potholes, kid, but they're kinda hard to avoid in this part of Brooklyn." He eyed the road ahead balefully.

"Not that." Jamie shifted uncomfortably. "Have you talked to Dad?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. Why?"

"Don't call him."

"Don't call him?" Danny repeated incredulously. "Is that you or is that the concussion talking?"

"I mean it."

"What, you planning on just showing up to dinner on Sunday looking like this? Yeah, that's great, kid. Nobody'll notice a thing. And if they do, you can tell them you helped out some tourists in Times Square by flagging down a cab with your face."

"I _mean_ it."

Danny scowled. "What are you even talking about?"

"I just need some time," Jamie replied. "Can you give me that?"

"For what?" Danny demanded, fighting the temptation to take his eyes off the road and lay them on his brother. "Geez, kid. Keep this up and I'll drop you at the King's County psychiatric ward instead of the ER."

Jamie didn't reply, sinking deeper into the seat.

Danny huffed a sigh of annoyance. "Just relax, would you? We're almost there."

Jamie said nothing further, and they rode in silence to King's County, a large and forbidding-looking fortress of a building settled deep in Brooklyn. Danny was pleased to see a pair of nurses in blue scrubs and a security officer waiting for them outside of the main ER entrance, and once he flashed his badge, they directed him to a side door and helped ease a silent Jamie into a wheelchair to bring him inside. Danny followed quietly as they bypassed the waiting and assessment areas to move straight to an exam room, where the nurses carefully helped Jamie onto a stretcher and began to ease off his jacket. Danny resigned himself to the hallway to give them more room to work but stayed close by, peering through the exam room door to keep an eye on his brother as a third nurse moved in with a blood pressure cuff.

"Detective?"

Danny turned to see a young Asian doctor walking towards him from down the hall, his turquoise scrubs crisp and clean under the fluorescent lights. "Detective, I'm Doctor Yan. Is this the undercover officer dispatch called us about?"

"Yeah," Danny said, shaking the doctor's hand and nodding towards the exam room. "This is Officer Jamie Reagan... but he's Jimmy Riordan if anybody else asks." The doctor nodded, his eyes intense and interested as Danny spoke. "He got roughed up on the job earlier today. Didn't want any fuss, but as you can tell he needed to get looked over."

The doctor glanced into the exam room, and his gaze tightened with sympathy as the nurses carefully removed Jamie's shirt, exposing the vivid bruising across his abdomen. "Yes, I think that was definitely a good idea," the doctor said, then glanced at Danny. "I assume you'll be staying with him, Detective...?"

"Danny Reagan." He was staring at the damage to his brother's body, trying to keep his own blood pressure from going through the roof. Tesla was dead, no question about that. Dead. D-E-A-D.

"You're family?"

"Yeah."

The doctor nodded again, his expression kind. "You're welcome to stay with him, but as you can see, the exam rooms are a bit tight. If you wouldn't mind waiting here in the hall?"

Danny's mind was already preoccupied with how satisfying it would be to smash Tesla's face into the white porcelain of the nearest convenient toilet bowl, and he nodded distractedly. The doctor slipped into the room, leaving Danny alone with his murderous thoughts.

"Reagan?"

He startled at the unexpected voice, turning again. Kramer was striding towards him, the edges of his suit jacket flapping. Danny sighed and tried to dial down his temper, schooling his expression into something that was, hopefully, politically correct. "Hey, Kramer." He nodded toward the exam room doorway. "He's in with the doc now."

Kramer stepped forward, glancing into the room. Danny saw him grimace at the sight of Jamie, who was painted in deep reds and purples from the waist up. "Christ. Did Tesla do this?"

"Yeah. Apparently they thought Jamie might've snatched some data off their servers, and this is how they expressed their displeasure."

"Thank God they didn't do worse."

Danny eyed him with a narrow gaze.

Kramer returned the look. "I've seen it," he said flatly. "Your brother's lucky."

Anger flared, and he couldn't keep it at bay any longer. "My brother wouldn't even be in this situation if you'd have watched his back. Where was his backup?"

Kramer's expression turned cool. "Your brother knew the stakes of this assignment. He understood the parameters in which he would need to operate."

"He had no one there to stop this," Danny hissed. "They could have killed him if they wanted to."

"Detective-"

"You'd better believe I'm going to have a conversation with the Commissioner about this," he snapped. "And about you, Detective Kramer."

"You do what you have to do," he replied. "In the meantime, did your brother share with you the location of the drive?"

"What is it with you and that drive? I can't believe you care more about some information than an officer's life-"

"That information is paramount in a major ongoing investigation-"

"He swallowed the damn thing!"

Kramer did a double-take. "He swallowed it?"

"That's what I said."

Kramer blinked. "Well, that complicates things."

Doctor Yan stepped out of the room, approaching them. "Detective," he said to Danny. "We're taking your brother to X-ray and CT scan. Purely precautionary, but I think he may have a minor concussion and we want to rule out any fractures to his facial bones or ribs. We want some pictures of his left wrist, too, but everything else looks all right."

"Doctor, I'm Detective Kramer," Kramer said, when Danny made no move to introduce him. "I understand that Officer Reagan was forced to swallow a flash drive in order to protect some evidence during his assignment. I need that drive."

"He swallowed it?" Doctor Yan said.

"He did. Will exposure to X-rays cause potential data loss? Because if they do-"

"Are you listening to yourself?" Danny demanded. "At what point are you going to start putting your people in front of your damn cases?"

"Your brother willingly entered into this assignment, detective. He put himself in the line of fire for that information, and I won't allow it to be destroyed now."

"He never would have been in the line of fire in the first place if not for you, and your-"

"Detectives," Doctor Yan interrupted. "If you need to continue arguing about this, I would suggest you do it outside. As for the drive, do you know when it was swallowed?"

"Uh... maybe a couple of hours ago?" Danny guessed.

"It will still be in his stomach, then. The simplest way to retrieve it will be to induce vomiting, but I would prefer to do that after the scans. We don't need him throwing up if he has an internal injury we've missed or broken ribs. Fair enough?"

Kramer nodded. "I need to make some calls. I'll be in the waiting room. Doctor, please let me know when I can take possession of that drive." He gave Danny a cold look before turning his back, marching off down the hallway.

Danny jerked a thumb after him, looking at Doctor Yan. "You believe this guy, doc?"

The doctor flicked his eyebrows but smoothly changed the subject. "Detective, would you like a few minutes with your brother while we prep?"

He sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I would," he said, and slipped inside the exam room as Doctor Yan smiled and moved away.

Jamie was lying back on the stretcher, staring at the ceiling, a hospital gown hiding the worst of the damage to his body. The nurses had cleaned some of the blood from his lips and nose, but the bruising around his eyes and nose were wicked, visible even around the cold packs they had wrapped and placed against his face. His left wrist, splinted now, lay across his chest.

Danny approached him carefully. "How you feeling, kid?"

"How do I look?" he mumbled.

"Like shit," he said with a smile. "Sounds like you're in good hands, though. Do you need anything?"

"Nah." Jamie closed his good eye. "Sounded like you and Kramer had a nice conversation out there."

"Yeah, that guy." Danny yanked at his tie in frustration. "That jerk could care less about you or anybody else in his command. His whole world is revolving around his cases, his evidence... he's going wacky out there about that damn drive."

"You can let me fight my own battles, you know."

Jamie's voice was surprisingly cold, and Danny frowned. "I'm just trying to look out for you, Jamie."

"I'm not nine years old. I can make my own decisions. I don't need you out there raising hell. Kramer's right; the drive is what matters right now."

"And what about you, huh? Do you not matter?"

"I knew this could happen," he replied dismissively.

Danny leaned his elbows on the metal railing along the side of the stretcher, bending forward to run his hands over his face. "Kid, I'm really not following you here."

"I knew the risks I was taking when I took this assignment."

"No, that's where you're wrong. Going undercover is risky, sure, but this is not a normal thing. Undercover officers aren't supposed to get dropped into situations like this. They aren't supposed to get jumped and beaten up in some parking lot somewhere and left for dead."

Jamie swallowed. "You don't have to tell me I'm not good at this, Danny."

He recoiled. "Where the hell did you hear me say that?"

"I know I screwed up," Jamie snapped. "Getting that data is the only thing that's going to make it worthwhile."

"Jamie, you did _not_ screw up. Kramer's the one who didn't give you the help he should've. It's his responsibility to make sure you're okay. Kid, you didn't do anything wrong," he insisted. "What makes you think otherwise?"

"What you just said," he replied tiredly. "How many undercover officers do you know who get dragged into the hospital looking like this?"

"You can't help it if you were put in an impossible situation." He frowned down at his little brother, and as if he could feel the concerned eyes on him, Jamie turned his head, the ice packs sliding from his eye. "Hey, hold still," Danny reprimanded him, retrieving the pack. "You need these things."

Jamie studied him with his good eye. "I can think of a hundred things I should've done differently. Better."

"Sure you can," he shrugged. "That's part of the uniform. You think I don't have a few regrets myself?" He snorted, draping his arms along the rail. "I got more than a few, kid. You can't worry about it. You did the best you could, and you got out with the evidence and didn't even blow your cover. That's a good day in my book."

Jamie pressed a careful hand over his stomach. "I may have already had the evidence for dinner."

"What, you don't think that was the first question out of Kramer's mouth?" Danny snorted. "The stuff's fine. They're probably going to make you throw it up."

He grimaced. "Really?"

"Apparently. It'll be like old times when we were kids. Remember when all four of us were down with the flu that one time, when you were little? Poor ma had her hands full. The house didn't smell right for months." He grinned down at his brother, then sobered. "By the way... I know you're not a kid anymore, Jamie. But I'm always going to be in your corner. That's what big brothers do, got it?"

Jamie smiled a little. "I got it. Hey, uh... have you called Dad yet?"

He shook his head. "You didn't want me to. Although I think he's going to find out sooner or later... and it would be better coming from me." Danny hesitated. "Or... maybe I can get Kramer to do it. Dad's not going to be too happy about my day, either."

"What happened?"

"Let's just say my undercover car has a few new ventilation holes in it." He ran a hand over his face.

"Jeez, Danny."

"Like I said, kid. Always something I could've done differently, too."

A nurse popped her head into the doorway, rapping her knuckles against the frame. "Officer Reagan, are you ready?"

"Yeah," Jamie replied.

"You want me to come with you?" Danny offered with a grin.

Jamie somehow managed to make a disgruntled face despite the swelling, and Danny laughed. "Got it, I got it. Hey," he added, and reached over to grasp Jamie's right hand in a firm squeeze. "Good job out there today, kid. I mean it."

"Thanks," he said, and smiled as the nurse wheeled him through the doorway.

Danny looked after him for a moment, then tilted his head back, closing his eyes against the harshness of the lights above, the whiteness of the room. There were plenty of things he needed to do... call his father. Keep Kramer at bay. Figure out where he'd abandoned the squad car. Invent new ways to slowly and painfully kill Tesla. But at the moment, he just stood, and he breathed.

Somehow, they'd made it through another day.

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><p>Next up...<p>

_**Scene #5 -** Frank has a heart-to-heart with his youngest son in ER treatment room #6 at King's County, and Henry reminds his family that laughter is the best medicine._


	6. Chapter 6

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note:** Originally, I planned to have this entire nine-chapter story posted by this Friday, Jan. 13. Clearly that is not happening, LOL. However, I'm looking forward to seeing it through to its completion sometime this month (or early next). Three more scenes to go after this one! Thanks again, as always, to everyone who has followed and/or reviewed this story. Your support means everything to me! Also, thank you lurkers for the psychic approval I've been feeling from you. I see you back there. You can't hide. ;)

* * *

><p><em><strong>Scene #5 -<strong> Frank has a heart-to-heart with his youngest son in ER treatment room #6 at King's County, and Henry reminds his family that laughter is always the best medicine._

Danny had spent the last ten minutes wandering the corridors of the King's County emergency room, trying to summon up the courage to make the call he knew he needed to make. For the first eight minutes, he had studiously avoided the main waiting area, as he knew that a certain unscrupulous OCCB detective was in there and since Danny couldn't get his hands around Tesla's neck, Kramer would be an easy and more than acceptable substitute. Kramer, however, had apparently avoided the ER himself, as Danny spotted the detective outside on his phone with a cigarette dangling between his lips during minute number nine. Danny had briefly considered taking a seat next to the vending machines after that, but the emergency room crowd looked rowdy and a little licentious, so instead he checked in with the technicians doing Jamie's scans ("Detective, I appreciate your concern, but really, he's _fine_") and then liberated a rolling chair from the nurse's station, pushing it into Jamie's empty exam room and plopping down.

He pulled out his cell phone and looked at it, resting easily in his hand. Funny how a little piece of technology like that could be so damn intimidating.

Time to man up.

His father answered after three rings. "I heard you had a big day." Frank's voice was warm, and something about the comforting tone seeped down to Danny's very core, teasing apart the tension that had gathered there.

"You heard about that, huh?" Danny loosened his tie. "Well, Sam does like to share his adventures. Did he tell you we got pinned down by three tricked-out school buses and fifteen ex-cons with semi-automatics?"

"He said you took heavy fire thanks to a hit that Barrone set up. I hear your car's pretty much a loss."

"I never liked that car anyway."

"Danny," he said gently. "Are you all right?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm fine, Dad."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It was a heart-stopper there for a minute, but we're okay. Sam's worse off than me, actually. He's the one stuck with the paperwork."

"Well, if you turn on New York One, your shootout made the half-hour rotation."

He grimaced. "No names, I hope?"

"No names."

"And no comment from the NYPD either, I'm assuming."

"Only the standard lines." He heard his father moving as he spoke. "Are you home now? Linda said the play starts at eight."

"Oh, son of a bitch," he groaned. Never mind Albanians; _Linda_ was going to kill him. "What time is it now, Dad?"

"Coming up on seven."

"Shit, I need to call her. Dad... we've got a problem."

"I wondered if this was a social call," his father sighed. "What's going on?"

"Are you sitting down?"

His father paused. The silence almost spoke more than his next words, which were: "...and why do I need to sit down?"

"Sit down, Dad."

He heard the creak of mattress springs and realized his father was already home, no doubt in front of that massive dressing table in his bedroom that held so many framed family pictures there was hardly room for anything else. "I'm sitting. What's so exciting that my knees won't be able to take it?"

Danny swallowed. "I'm in the King's County ER with Jamie. He's okay," he added quickly, rushing to get the words in. "But he got beaten up pretty good while he was on assignment today."

He heard his father take a slow breath, no doubt composing himself as he absorbed the words. "He's all right?"

"Yeah. They're checking him out now, but it's nothing serious. He _looks_ pretty bad, but he'll be fine."

He heard his father stand. The movements sounded quick now, and purposeful. "What hospital did you say?"

"King's County. It was the closest one."

"What else do you know about what happened?"

"He was trying to smuggle some information out of the boiler room for Kramer. He got it, but they kicked his ass afterwards." Danny ran a hand down his face.

"Is his cover still intact?"

"Apparently. I have no idea how, but he said it was." Danny tilted his head back, staring into the glare of the fluorescent lights. "He called me while I was coming back from the prison. He was so out of it, Dad."

"And you're there now?"

"Yeah."

"Stay with him. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"You sure you want to come? He may end up getting discharged out of here pretty soon, unless they find something."

"I'm sure. Stay with him for me."

"Yeah, you got it." He ended the call, then palmed the phone, staring down at it.

Now for the second-hardest call.

She answered on the first ring. "And where are you?"

"Linda," he sighed.

"I thought you were coming straight home?" She was in the car; he could hear traffic in the background. "I hope you're meeting us at the school, 'cause we just gave up on you at the house."

"Change of plans, babe."

"Don't tell me you got pulled into a case?"

"No, no. Tell me when you get to a stoplight."

"Why?"

"Because you're already talking on the cell phone while you're driving and I have to tell you something, and I don't want you wrecking the car."

She hesitated. "I'm pulling off. There's a Pizza Hut up here." He heard his sons erupting in the background, and her voice became muffled as she turned away from the phone. "Hey! No, guys, we're just stopping so I can talk to your dad. No pizza - Sean, leave your seatbelt on. Nobody's getting out." She sighed, turning back to the phone. "Okay."

"You're stopped?"

"Quit stalling, Reagan."

"I'm with Jamie. He's in the emergency room at King's County."

He waited as the words sank in. "My God... what happened? Is he-?"

"He's all right. He got hurt on his undercover assignment today. Nothing serious, but he's pretty banged up."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You don't sound okay."

"I _am_ thinking about killing some people."

"Do you want me to help?"

He laughed, despite himself. "Nah, babe, just go on to the play. It's fine. Listen, can I talk to Jack?"

"Yeah, hold on."

He heard scuffling as the phone exchanged hands, then an excited voice filled his ear. "Hi Dad!"

His heart warmed. "Hey, kiddo. Listen, I've got some bad news, all right? I'm not going to be able to make it to your play tonight. I'm really sorry."

"You can't come?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wished he could pretend that he didn't hear the disappointment in his oldest son's voice. "I'm sorry, Jack. I can't come."

"Why not?"

"Your Uncle Jamie got hurt tonight. He's okay, but he needs me to stay with him for a little while."

Jack seemed to consider that. "Like I stayed with Sean when he skinned his knee on the driveway last week?"

"Yeah, kiddo, just like that. We big brothers have to do that for our little brothers sometime, right?"

"Yeah." He could almost see Jack nodding seriously into the phone. "It's okay, Dad."

"It's not okay," Danny clarified. "But thank you. I promise I'll make it up to you, okay?"

"Pizza," Jack said firmly.

He laughed. "Pizza," he agreed. "Can I talk to your mom again?"

"Yeah."

He heard a rustling, then Linda's voice returned. "Danny, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Dad's on his way. Once he's here, I might be able-"

"Hey," she interrupted. "You're where you need to be, huh? Stay there. Me and the boys will be fine."

He leaned back in the chair, ignoring the ominous creak it made. "You do know you're the most incredible woman alive, right?"

"I do," she replied with a smile in her voice. "Call me later and let me know what's happening."

"Uh, by the way," he hedged. "You didn't happen to catch New York One before you left, did you?"

"No... should I?"

"Definitely not," he grinned. "Love you, babe."

She sighed, but he latched onto the fondness within it. "Love you more."

Ending the call, Danny remained where he was, leaning back in the rickety chair and trying to process the day. Mob bosses, mob _hits_, a trashed squad car, years off his life, _more_ years gone after a terrifying phone call from his little brother, disappointing his wife and kids, and now sitting alone in a hospital, waiting with nothing but four walls for company. Why did every day in the life of Danny Reagan have to pack in enough action for a Hollywood thriller? Honestly, he would be more than happy to spend an entire day in his living room with a beer at hand and the game on. He really needed to work on making that happen sometime.

Danny was well into the fantasy of his dream day, which now included a pickup baseball game with the boys in the yard, a leaky sink that magically fixed itself and at least twenty minutes of doing nothing but inhaling the strawberry scent of Linda's hair, when a pair of orderlies rolled Jamie back into the room, getting him settled quickly. "The doctor should be back in in just a minute," one said.

Danny nodded and approached the bed, his hands on his hips, looking down at his brother critically. Jamie was now clad in a thin hospital gown, a blanket pulled up to his waist. The gown hid the damage to his body and the dried blood was all gone, but if anything Jamie's face looked worse, swollen and fading into hues of violet and red. He looked exhausted, and Danny winced in sympathy. "How ya feeling now, kid?"

"Wonderful." Jamie reached up with his right hand to adjust a fresh ice pack on his face.

Danny's eyes fell on his left wrist, resting gingerly across his stomach and now encased in a soft cast. "What's this?"

Jamie had his eyes closed. "What's what?"

"This cast thing. Did you break something, kid?"

"No, it's just a sprain or a strain or something. I don't know."

Danny leaned forward on the bed's metal railing, wishing Jamie would open his eyes so he could fully appreciate the baleful expression Danny had ready for him. "You ought to pay attention when they tell you about this stuff."

"They'll be telling you in a minute. You can remember it for me."

Danny sighed, feeling caustic words spring to readiness on his tongue, but he thought better of letting them fly. Jamie'd had a hell of a day, after all. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"Dad's on his way."

It was Jamie's turn to sigh. "You called him, huh?"

"He was going to find out sooner or later," Danny shrugged. "Believe me, sooner is better with this kind of thing."

Jamie shifted on the bed, wincing a little. "What did he say?"

"I told him you were all right. That was the only thing he really cared about."

"Is he coming here?"

"What do you think?"

"He's going to kill me," Jamie declared sadly.

"Kid, do we have to go over this again? He's not going to kill you. He's gonna be pissed, but he's not going to kill you."

"Was he mad on the phone?"

"Nah," Danny said. "Scared, if anything."

"Scared?"

"You know. Worried about you."

Jamie seemed to consider that for a second, then cracked open his good eye, squinting at Danny. "I'm sorry if I scared _you_ earlier."

Danny chuckled. "I don't know of anything that _hasn't_ scared me today, honestly. But you were high on the list, kid. I think I lost at least a year off my life thanks to you."

Doctor Yan poked his head into the room, an easy smile on his face and a clipboard in his hand. "Good news, gentlemen," he said brightly. "The scans show no fractures or deep-tissue injuries to worry about. Not even a cracked rib. You do have a minor concussion, Officer Reagan, and a lot of soft tissue injuries in your face and torso, but those will heal up on their own."

"What about his eye?" It hadn't escaped Danny's notice how quickly Jamie's damaged eye had swelled shut.

"We checked it, and it looks like the eye itself is fine," the doctor reassured him. "Again, just soft tissue injuries."

"So when can I get out of here?"

"Well, next we're going to need to give you a medication to help induce vomiting," the doctor said apologetically. "We can proceed with that safely now that we know you aren't dealing with any internal injuries." The doctor's eyes flicked with mild alarm to Danny's expression, which at that point was at a rolling boil. "That, uh... that was at Detective Kramer's request...?"

Danny sighed impatiently, waving his hand to indicate his begrudging approval. "And after Kramer gets his damn drive?"

"After that, I think we'll administer some pain medication and muscle relaxer via IV, to help Officer Reagan until he can get some prescriptions filled. We'll dismiss you after that, and have you follow up with your personal physician. Does that sound good?"

"A great end to a great day," Jamie muttered into his icepack.

The doctor nodded. "I'll send one of the nurses right back."

As he slipped out, Danny hesitated, looking down at Jamie. "I guess I'll go grab Kramer, kid. I'm sure he'll want to be here for chain of evidence or some such shit. You want me to go wait for dad after that, or what?"

"Whatever you want. I don't blame you if you don't want to stay here and watch me puke."

But the thought of no one in the room with his battered, sick brother but Kramer sealed the deal for Danny. So, after the thankless task of beckoning Kramer back inside, Danny soon found himself positioned at the head of Jamie's bed, standing opposite a friendly nurse. She had an arm around Jamie's back and Danny kept his on his brother's shoulders at her instruction, both of them holding him up as he curled forward, grimacing through the pain of his bruised muscles contracting. The nurse held an emesis basin in front of him, and Danny couldn't help but wince and look away when Jamie finally got sick. Danny was no stranger to puke, that was for sure, and Lord knew he'd spewed enough himself over the years, but this was different. It was different to stand here helplessly in King's County exam room #6 with his beaten brother tucked under his arm, listening to his gasps of pain through the sickness, and understanding with excruciating clarity everything he'd taken upon himself for this damn job.

Happily, the medication worked not only efficiently but quickly as well. Once Jamie's heaves had subsided, Kramer peered down into the emesis basin with approval. "Thanks, Officer Reagan," he said. "Good work." He nodded to a waiting nurse and walked out of the room with her and the basin of puke.

Danny sneered after him. "Good damn riddance. Kid, I want that to be the nicest gift you _ever_ give that guy. It's all downhill from here. His Christmas stocking is either going to have a flaming bag of dog poop or a squirrel that's been dead for two weeks."

"Give me a hand here, detective," the friendly nurse called, amusement in her voice, and Danny quickly returned his attention to the room. With the nurse guiding him, he helped ease Jamie back to a resting position on the stretcher, and they both hovered for a few minutes until Jamie's painful breaths had eased. "There you go, Jamie," she said. "That should be it. We'll give you about twenty minutes to settle, then see about giving you some good drugs to get you out of here, huh?"

"Yeah," Jamie managed.

"I'll get some ice chips," the nurse added, and smiled at Danny before stepping out.

Putting his back to the door as though he could unconsciously guard Jamie from whatever might come through next, Danny hovered over his brother, wrapping his hands around the metal railings of the bed. He opened his mouth, not sure what he could say to take the pained look off Jamie's face, when a sound at the doorway distracted him.

His father.

Frank Reagan was standing just inside the doorway of the small room, slightly disheveled in one of his Sunday afternoon sweaters, and looking nothing like the commanding police commissioner he normally was. His forehead was creased with deep worry, and he looked, Danny realized suddenly, like a father. A nervous one. "Danny?" he said softly.

Danny realized he was blocking his father's view. Biting his lip, he stepped back, giving his father a clear view of Jamie.

Not that he could see all that much. Jamie had hauled the blanket halfway up his chest after the puking episode, and the replaced ice packs had his face well hidden. But Danny could see the precise moment that his father understood what he was looking at, because his eyes went wide, and he looked like someone might have just smacked him across the face. "Son," he said aloud, and managed nothing else.

Jamie turned his head slightly. "Hey, Dad. It isn't as bad as it looks."

"Well, that's good," Frank said, stepping to the opposite side of the bed and peering down in concern. "Because it looks pretty bad."

"That's what they tell me."

"What did the doctor say?" he asked, turning to Danny.

"Uh... mild concussion and some kind of wrist sprain. Everything else is just cuts and bruises. But, y'know..." He gestured helplessly at Jamie's battered face, and Frank nodded in grim understanding. "The doc did say he would be out of here pretty soon."

"With painkillers," Jamie muttered.

Frank leaned over him. "Your brother and Detective Kramer told me what happened. Tesla?"

"And company."

He nodded. "I ran into Kramer in the parking lot," he explained to Danny. "He's taking the drive back to the lab. Seems pretty confident that he'll be able to use the information you downloaded to break up the entire operation eventually."

"That's good. I hope my eating it didn't hurt it too much."

"Doesn't look like it." He smiled fondly. "That was quick thinking, son. Very quick."

"Not like I had much choice."

"Still, it showed a presence of mind that can be very hard to find within this line of work." Frank's hands tightened on the bed railings, and Danny frowned when he noticed. "Jamie," Frank added. "All that said... once you're out of here and feeling a little better, I want you to think about whether you want to continue working with OCCB."

Jamie shifted, then swallowed hard, as though he'd been expecting the words. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"You're sorry?" Frank repeated blankly.

"For screwing this up."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Kid, again with this?"

"You didn't screw up anything, son," Frank reassured him. "You did very well. I'm proud of how you handled yourself. And there's good opportunity for you to continue, if you want to. I'm afraid my request is... a father's selfish one."

Jamie sighed. "Dad..."

"Don't give me an answer tonight." Frank ran a gentle hand over Jamie's head. "Get some rest, son. When you're feeling better, you can tell me more about all this, and how you want to move forward. I promise, I'll support anything you want to do."

"Thanks."

Frank smiled down at him, fondly. "Would you mind if I took you back to the house once you're discharged? Your grandpa is anxious to see with his own eyes that you're all right."

"He might be more convinced if he doesn't actually see me," Jamie muttered drolly.

"All the same... it would be good for him, and for your old man too, to have you under my roof tonight. What do you say?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, and smiled. It was faint and lopsided, but it was there. "So long as you're driving."

"Deal."

"Detective?" Danny turned to see Jamie's nurse back in the doorway, smiling. "You have a visitor."

"_I_ have a visitor? Who?"

She beckoned him to the hallway. Puzzled, Danny took a last look at his father and brother, then stepped out, steeling himself. At best, it would be Jackie or Erin. At worst, Sergeant Gormley. No no, Kramer, back for more. Maybe Jamie hadn't thrown up enough already for his taste.

So with those thoughts in his head, Danny was stunned when he looked down the hall and saw none other than his beautiful wife walking towards him, a smile on her tired face. Jack burst out from behind her, clad in a homemade red and green elf outfit, glasses sliding down his nose as he rushed to his father. "Dad!"

Danny's grin was like the breaking of dawn, and he dropped down to one knee, sweeping his son up into a bear hug and reaching out another arm for Sean. "Hey!" he laughed. "What are you guys doing here?"

"We came to show you my costume," Jack replied seriously. "You like it?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I like it," he grinned. "You look like the perfect Christmas elf."

"Do you like my ears?" He turned his head the side, showing off the pointed plastic tips he was wearing.

"Star Trek ears," Sean whispered conspiratorially to Danny.

Jack apparently heard, as his expression became indignant. "_Elf_ ears, Sean!"

"Okay, let's split it halfway and call them pointy ears." He looked up at Linda, who stood watching them fondly. "What about the play?"

She shrugged. "I told Jack's teacher we had a family emergency."

Danny stood, his arms full of his boys. She leaned forward into what little space was left to kiss him, then let her lips brush his ear. "Jack didn't want to be on stage anyway," she whispered. "He just wanted to show off his costume for you... so here we are."

He kissed her again. "Thank you," he whispered. "I owe ya."

"I'll be cashing that in soon, I'm sure." She smiled against his lips. "How's Jamie?"

"Good. I think he'll be getting out of here soon. Probably best if the boys don't see him right now, though."

"Easy enough." She tapped each of her sons on the nose, grinning at their contagious excitement. "All right, you two... remember there are sick people in here trying to get better, right? So if you promise to stay quiet, I'll let you both pick something out the vending machines, huh?"

"I'll come, too," Danny offered, as Sean wound his arms contentedly around his neck.

"Need some chocolate, huh?"

"That..." He glanced back into the treatment room, where his father remained, leaning over his son. "...and I think they could use a minute."

She followed Danny's gaze, taking in the scene with tender eyes. "He's in good hands," she reassured Danny, then smiled at Jack and Sean still clinging to him. "As are you."

His grin was broad. "That I am."

The family was able to get Jamie home several hours later, albeit loopy from the drugs Doctor Yan had dosed him with before releasing him to Frank and Danny's care. They had helped him up the stairs and let him crash in his old bedroom, where he slept the entire night and part of the next day, thus missing Erin creeping in and tearing up when she saw his face; missing Henry's gentle caresses of his hair, and missing most of Frank's bedside vigil. He woke up only to take the medicines he had been prescribed, and when he finally plodded out of bed on Saturday afternoon, he looked a swollen, bruised mess, his skin painted fifteen different hues and his expression even more exhausted than before.

An hour later, limp on the couch and wishing he could simply disappear into the generous cushions, Frank came into the room and sat down opposite him. "How are you doing, son?"

"Wishing people would stop asking me that question."

"Well, as of Monday morning you'll officially be down with the flu," he smiled. "Should give you at least four or five days for the worst of that swelling to go down. Then you can get back on the job."

Jamie turned to squint at the coffee table, where his personal cell phone sat side-by-side with his cheaper, undercover model. "I've been thinking more about my other job."

Frank nodded, watching him closely.

"Dad... I appreciate where you're coming from," he started, hesitantly.

Frank gave a tight smile, ducking his head. "I figured that would be your answer."

"I want to do this," he admitted. "I want to stay in. I knew what the risks were when I started." He let himself smirk a little. "I think I know them better now."

"I'll say."

Jamie watched him closely. "Do I... is that okay with you?"

"Son, you always have my support," Frank reassured him. "And I'm always going to be proud of you. You know that. I think you also know that if I had my way, I would find desk jobs for you and your brother." His smile was wan. "But then I would have two very unhappy sons on my hands, I think."

Jamie forced his swollen face into a smile, ignoring the painful tightness of his face. "Thank you, Dad."

He stood, sighing. "I can give you a ride home if you want."

"How about tomorrow, after dinner? I forgot how comfortable my old bed is."

Frank slid his hands into his pockets. "Being waited on doesn't get too old either, does it?"

"Not at _all_."

But it hadn't escaped Frank's notice that Jamie had been quiet for most of his stay, preoccupied and a little distant. Both Erin and Danny had called three times on Saturday to check up on him and again Sunday, with the final straw coming when Linda had to set aside the salad she was creating for dinner to grab her cell phone. "He's fine, Danny. Fine. I already told you, we've got plenty of salt. Yes, and pepper. Stop making excuses to call over here, Reagan." She hung up the phone and tossed it onto the counter, shaking her head. "I need to change my number, I swear to God."

Henry observed her critically from where he stood at the stove, stirring the green beans. "He's still not letting go, huh?"

"None of them are," she sighed. "Danny's so worried about Jamie he's forgetting the fact he almost got killed himself a few nights ago. Erin and Nicky both are hovering over him like mother hens. I know the boys are going to freak out when they see him tonight, and Frank is dragging around here like Jacob Marley."

"He's not thrilled about Jamie staying undercover," Henry nodded. "Can't say I blame him, but it's the boy's decision."

"And Jamie's as bad as any of them," Linda added, stabbing at the lettuce. "He's avoiding mirrors and shiny surfaces like the plague. I swear, this family needs a break, Henry. It's been quiet as a tomb in here since he got home. I don't think I can take a dinner of everybody sitting around staring at him. Pretty soon I'm gonna start _seeing_ the dark clouds hanging over everybody's heads."

Henry paused in his stirring, looking thoughtful. "Maybe we do need to lighten the mood a little. Do you remember how we used to laugh around the dinner table? We had an entire Sunday once spent on nothing but one-liners from movies."

She smiled fondly. "I do remember. That was usually Joe cracking the jokes, though."

"No no, that was _always_ Francis," Henry corrected. "He put Joe up to most of them. They loved to cause trouble around the table." His smile broadened. "Maybe I need to have a chat with my son before dinner tonight. We may need to have another conversation about Jamie Reagan, the Amazing Bottomless Pit."

Linda laughed right into the salad. "I remember that! My God, we haven't talked about that in years. The stuff that kid used to swallow... Danny told me all about it. It read like a set list at a freak show."

Henry nodded, his eyes sparkling. "Chalk, coffee grounds, buttons... soap, cigarette ashes, glue..."

"It's amazing he's lived _this_ long, to tell you the truth."

"I'll talk to Francis." Henry turned down the heat on the beans with a grin. "We'll make sure tonight is a dinner conversation to be proud of."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And THIS, I hope, accomplishes the main goal I had for this entire story, which was to explain that dinner scene for us h/c lovers. See, we just needed to have the proper context, that's all. :) Also, I am FLYING to get this posted right now and am SO LATE, so I hope there aren't any mistakes. Remember, reviews = love! So much love.

Next up...

_**Scene #6 -** Jamie's been out on sick leave for a few days, so Renzulli decides to bring get-well tidings to his partner. He's not prepared for what he finds._


	7. Chapter 7

**In the Moonlight**

**Author's Note -** Sorry it's taken a while for me to do EVERYTHING lately... reply to your reviews, write this stuff, etc. No time. Epic fail. I did put a new one-shot up called "Live to Tell" last weekend, so I hope you read and enjoyed that. Funny how those plot bunnies sometimes attach themselves to your brain and just won't let go.

As a reminder, this story is taking place _after_ "Moonlighting" but _before_ the January episodes of "Whistle Blower" and "The Uniform," so the action in those episodes (particularly the conversations between Jamie and Renzulli about Jamie's suspicious behavior) has not happened yet in this story. Also, this is AU on a couple of points, which I'll detail at the chapter's conclusion, but it's nothing too major. Thanks for reading, as always!

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><p><em><strong>Scene #6 -<strong> Jamie's been out on sick leave for a few days, so Renzulli decides to visit his partner. He's not prepared for what he finds._

Anthony Renzulli was a standard-issue, true-blue, NYPD beat cop. Damn proud of it, too.

He'd seen it all. Arrested most of it at one point or another. A couple of decades on the job, give or take a year, had made him as savvy and sharp-eyed as any cop on the force.

Okay, so he was proud of his work. Who wouldn't be?

But if there was one thing that Anthony Renzulli was not, it was cynical. He'd seen far too many of his brothers in arms go down that road, letting the job eat into their hearts and souls, turning them crass and callous. He knew better. It was his job to be the buffer between what life was supposed to be and what it sometimes became, and it was his job to find in the tragedies, somewhere, the good. He figured that was why the brass had seen fit to make him a TO, to keep the rookies from turning in their badges on the spot when they saw the worst of what life could dish out. The bad stuff - and God knew there was bad stuff - that was reality, sure. But there was plenty of good stuff, too, and he had to make the newbies understand that. Make right out of the wrong.

To him, there couldn't be a higher calling.

Sometimes he was still amazed to think he'd managed to land a job like this. It certainly hadn't been anything he could've predicted for himself. Hell, if he was being perfectly honest, he had never even dreamed of becoming a cop. There just hadn't been a lot of options out of high school, and with a young wife to support, the NYPD had been as good a choice as any. It was only over time that he'd come to appreciate the job, and had realized that, yeah, he was even sort of good at it. Maybe he'd screwed up a time or two over the years - his gambling habit came to mind - but through everything, he had always focused on what could be, not what was. He'd never lost the call.

Well, okay. He had almost changed his mind on 9/11.

In truth, 9/11 had made him doubt a lot of things, but his choice of profession was definitely at the top of that list. The regrets had begun right around 9:59 a.m. as he slammed his body against the north wall of a building two blocks from the towers with a woman on vacation from Boise, her arms locked around his shoulders as her eyes popped with terror, and they had clutched each other as the sky turned white and the sun blinked out, the entire world collapsing around them with a roar so loud it could barely be called a sound, plunging lower Manhattan into nuclear winter. Once he discovered that he was still alive, that's when the real horror had begun. It hadn't ended until weeks later, after his skin already bore the scars of Ground Zero and his heart was gashed too deeply to heal.

But even then. Even then, he understood the capacity for good that could - no, _had_ - to come from it. Life went on, and as long as he was alive, he did, too. He knew the part he was always, ever called to play. Hell, one of the proudest moments of his life had come when he was promoted to sergeant. He'd worn the uniform everywhere for weeks, catching his reflection in every mirror and shop window, smiling when he saw the stripes on his arm. He knew then that he would be comfortable spending the rest of his career like this, working as a training officer, doing what he could for the city he loved. Doing a job he was proud of, and hell, good at, too. It was more than he ever could've asked.

Then along came a wide-eyed, overeager NYPD rookie named Joe Reagan.

He still remembered the cold horror that had come upon him, shrinking his skin a size too small, when his captain had taken him aside and told him that the new police commissioner's son was a rookie cop and guess who was being tapped as his TO? He had managed to shake his hyperaware panic and even get halfway used to the idea until a call came through two days later, summoning not his captain and not his lieutenant but him, standard-issue beat cop Anthony Renzulli, to the Office of the Police Commissioner. He wasn't proud of it and he had never confessed it to anyone, but he'd nearly pissed his pants.

He had never been near the Office of the Police Commissioner in his life. The closest he'd ever come was a drive-by with his dad when he was fifteen, when Papa Renzulli had chucked a thumb at the building as they drove past on Pearl Street and said, "If I ever get woken up by a goddamned knock on my door and it's the cops bringing you home, I'm breaking your neck." The day of the meeting, his stomach had been rolling so badly he couldn't even grab his customary cup of coffee, and by the time he was escorted into the Commissioner's office by a leggy blond detective with a no-nonsense expression that took her hotness level down several notches, his knees were almost knocking together.

Commissioner Reagan was quick to greet him. The man cut a sharp figure when his photo ran in the papers and he was an impressive guy on TV, which were the only two places Renzulli had ever seen him. In person, he was more than a little intimidating. The new Commissioner was a bear of a man, built wide and deep, and though he had shucked his jacket and was wearing a warm, easy smile, Renzulli felt his proffered hand swallowed in the Commissioner's sizable grip and gulped despite himself.

"Sergeant Renzulli," the Commissioner said warmly. "Thanks for coming down on short notice."

"Uh," he replied, eyes darting from the Commissioner's face to the office around them. The views of the city provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows were sweeping, and even though a few telltale cardboard boxes remained from unpacking, the office was already tastefully appointed. It felt elegant, even elite. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and wondered how quickly he could get the hell out of there. "Yes sir."

"Would you like some coffee?"

Only if it was spiked with generous amounts of Kentucky bourbon. "Uh, no sir. Thank you, sir."

The Commissioner nodded. "Have a seat," he said, and gestured toward the comfortable leather couches near the windows.

Renzulli sat down tentatively on the edge of a chair, clearing his throat. He felt his leg starting to jiggle, bouncing up and down, and forced it to be still.

Commissioner Reagan settled down across from him. "Sergeant, has your captain told you about the assignment I have for you?"

"Uh... yes, sir. A little, sir."

"My son will be graduating from the academy in a few weeks," the Commissioner explained, and a broadening smile blossomed across his face. "Now, you've never happened to cross paths with my oldest, Daniel Reagan, have you? He was in the twelfth for a time."

"I don't think so, sir."

The Commissioner sipped from his own coffee mug. "Danny just became a detective with the seventeenth. My middle son, Joe, is the one graduating from academy."

Renzulli cleared his throat a little. "You must be very proud, sir."

"I am," he said, and set the mug down gently on the table beside him. "Sergeant... do you know why I asked you here?"

"Yes, sir." He'd rehearsed this for twenty minutes the night before in front of the bathroom mirror. "Let me say that it's an honor to be working with your son. And I'll make sure I do my best-"

"That's not exactly what I meant," the Commissioner interrupted gently, and Renzulli swallowed down the rest of his response. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Sergeant, but I brought you here for a different reason. May I call you Tony?"

"Uh... y-yes, sir." Clearly, the Commissioner had changed his mind. Maybe he'd learned about the good tips Renzulli had been getting lately on the ponies at Aqueduct. He fervently hoped not. It would be like the time he and a couple of his friends had set fire to some toilet paper in the boys' room at St. Frances Cabrini. But even then, that had warranted a trip to the principal's office, not an audience with the Pope.

"Tony... I need to make sure that my son has a training officer who can really show him the ropes. He's..." The Commissioner hesitated, and seemed to choose his words carefully. "Joe sees the best in people. Everybody. It's always been one of his best qualities, but as a cop, you know it can also be one of the worst." The Commissioner's thoughtful gaze wandered to the window. "He's got a big heart. Eager to make an impact. I want to make sure he's paired up with someone who can ground him a little... help him see what he _can_ do while making sure he doesn't lose sight of what he _has_ to do."

This didn't sound so bad. "Yes, sir."

"And I don't want anyone who'll cut him any slack. He'll need to earn his place out there just like anyone else."

Was this whole meeting nothing more than a pep talk from the old man? "Yes, sir."

"Finally... I want to make sure he's teamed with someone who can handle the pressure."

Oh, here it came. "Sir?" he asked querulously, hoping it didn't sound as pathetic to the Commissioner as it did to him.

The Commissioner shrugged. "Joe is going to attract a lot of attention because of his name, and not just from the public. A lot of eyes within the NYPD will be on him, too. And that means they'll be on his TO. I want to make sure that you're up for this, Tony. I think you'll make a great training officer for Joe, but I need to know that you can handle the extra pressure. Do you think you're up for it?"

Renzulli swallowed, trying to take it in. "Sir..." He wracked his brain for the right words. "Sir, uh, like I said, I'm honored, but..."

The Commissioner's eyes were clear and still. "You'd rather not?"

"No, no sir! I'm happy to do it, I just..." He was flustered, floundering, and his carefully prepared words slipped away. "There's plenty of good TOs out there, sir, y'know? I mean, some are better than others, obviously, but most of us are pretty good. But we all bring different things to the job... some can shoot, some have the sharp minds, some have the street sense, some can sweet-talk any dealer or hooker they meet-"

The Commissioner's brow furrowed, just slightly, and he tipped his head to the side. He looked like he was trying, hard, to follow whatever in the hell Renzulli was letting come out of his mouth.

He hesitated. "Sir, your boy's gonna be on a fast track. No doubt about that. There's stuff he needs to know... big people he needs to meet. He's gonna have to be able to handle himself in front of a lot more than just street punks."

The Commissioner lifted his eyebrows. "All that to say..."

"All that to say... I'm honored, sir. And I serve at your pleasure, but... are you sure I'm the right man for the job? I mean, all due respect, you've gotta have captains lined up around the block for a chance to work with your kid."

The Commissioner nodded. "Do you remember a Lieutenant Court out of the North Manhattan district?"

"Yeah, old Tombstone Lou?" he grinned, then remembered himself. "Uh, yes sir."

The smile he received was a genuine one. "He's an old friend of mine... a very old friend, and one of my best. I went to him when I needed some suggestions on who would make a good training officer for my son. I told him I needed someone who excelled at the job for all the right reasons... who loved it, and wanted to help other officers love it, too. He didn't hesitate before he recommended you."

Renzulli swallowed, thinking of his old commanding officer. He felt overwhelmed. "Yes, sir."

"Besides," the Commissioner sighed, "I had a captain serve as my son Danny's training officer. It didn't last a week."

"Sir?"

"Danny turned him in for fixing parking tickets." The Commissioner grinned at him over his mug.

Renzulli returned it, tentatively. "Sir..."

"Sergeant Renzulli, I'd like you to help my son become a good cop. Can I count on you?"

And his smile had gone wide. "Yes, sir."

It had been the start of an incredible, if exhausting, year. He had wondered if Joe Reagan might turn out to be a primadonna or a douche, but the kid was every bit the bright-eyed crusader his father had said he was, as quick to to pick up discarded fast food wrappers out of the gutter as he was to lend a hand or break up a skirmish. Day after day, Renzulli had waited for exhaustion or derision to kick in, or for the kid's good humor to be tempered by reality, but it had never happened. Day after day, Reagan almost bounced through the squad room, wearing that customary bright smile and eager expression, and although it annoyed the hell out of him some days, Renzulli couldn't help but appreciate the kid. Joe really had been something else, keeping him on his toes for every one of their three hundred and sixty-five days together, soaking up knowledge like a sponge, forever making him scramble to keep up. Good God, he had thought Reagan would be the death of him.

The smile was what Renzulli liked to remember. That big, overeager grin, that even the wettest, most miserable day couldn't wash away. He'd been a good kid, that Joe Reagan. Always so dedicated to being like his pop. The kid's sun had rose and set on being a good officer, sure, but he had so badly wanted to make his father proud. Renzulli wondered if he'd known that he'd had that all along, right from the very start.

Good kid, that Joe Reagan.

So that was that and that was all, or so he'd thought. Who would've guessed that years later, the youngest of the Reagan brood would end up shotgun in his squad car, a kid named Jamison (seriously?) who had actually finished up a genuine Harvard law degree before throwing it to the wind and grabbing a badge instead. Renzulli had figured he knew what the youngest Reagan was all about before he ever met him. The kid had lost his brother, after all. He was either joining the force for revenge or was working on some kind of non-fiction tell-all about... grief, maybe, or self-discovery, or some other kind of crap that the women on Marie's afternoon talk shows were always yapping on about.

As it turned out, Jamie Reagan ran much deeper than that. In many ways, the kid was the spitting image of his brother, with a good heart and unshakable morals. In other ways, though, he was different... way, way quieter, and more reflective. Sometimes Renzulli could almost hear the Harvard gears of the kid's mind spinning. He brought a balanced, measured calmness with him to every crime scene, and even the most hysterical victims or angry perps seemed to bring it down a notch in his presence. Initially, Renzulli had put the over-under on two months before the kid would flame out like a Chinese firework on the NYPD, but Jamie had turned out to be a lot more than his last name. His ideals were so high Renzulli didn't think he could see them with the Hubble telescope, but nobody was perfect, after all. What was really amazing was that Jamie Reagan had turned out to be a good partner, and was well on his way to being a damn fine cop. He had a hell of a lot still to learn, sure, but he knew loyalty. He knew trust.

He was also a magnet for trouble, but that was neither here nor there.

With these thoughts knocking about in his mind, Renzulli allowed his squad car to coast to a stop along Wooster Street, glancing at his watch as he eased into an open spot along the curb and killed the engine. He still had about half an hour left of his pseudo lunch break, despite it being 11 o'clock at night, and since he knew Reagan loved that homemade vegetable soup down at Rob's Diner on Canal, he'd gone ahead and picked up a to-go order for the kid. He wasn't sure if food was the best idea for somebody who'd been down three days already with the stomach flu, but he had to eat something eventually, and Renzulli knew for a fact that his own personal favorite order, the Hillbilly Hot Dog from Merv's cart on Canal (a mouth-watering concoction of peppers, onions, jalapeños and hot mustard, with a hot dog underneath that somewhere) probably wouldn't do the trick.

Balancing the take-out bag carefully in one hand, Renzulli nodded to the doorman of Jamie's apartment building and made it to the elevator without incident, smiling at an older couple who put curious eyes on him from across the lobby. The kid really did have a nice place. Really nice for a rookie's salary. As the elevator doors slid open and Renzulli stepped inside, he wondered idly if Daddy Reagan had helped the kid afford it. Most of the locker room was convinced that he probably had, but Renzulli didn't think the commissioner provided all that much flow. Frank Reagan seemed like the kind who booted his kids out of the nest and let them make their own way, and he hadn't noticed Joe having much extra cash back in the day.

He remembered the three thousand dollars abruptly while the elevator was between the fourth and fifth floors, and he swallowed hard.

No, Daddy Reagan definitely wasn't that free with the cash. Damn, he still owed the kid for that.

He hadn't told Jamie about his conversation with the commissioner in the St. Vincent's cafeteria, and he didn't plan to. But he was going to make sure the kid got his money back with interest, that was for sure. Six partners over the years, not counting rookies, and he'd never had one do something like that for him.

It was strange, and he was almost loathe to admit it, but the last few days had been lonely without his partner at his side. Captain Maxwell had offered to give him a new assignee for the week, but he'd declined. He preferred his own routine on patrol, but he was beginning to realize the best thing about it was spending it with the kid.

He stepped out on Jamie's floor and walked to the apartment. He'd been here a handful of times before, although usually just to drop something off or pick the kid up, back before he had his own car. He was a little surprised Jamie had stayed here after the breakup with his fiancee, but again, it was a pretty nice place. He hit the doorbell, then leaned against the frame idly. After a moment, he frowned and hit the doorbell again.

The kid had to be home. It was almost midnight, and where did you go with the flu? He might be asleep, though. Well, he could get up. The couch wasn't that far from the door.

Renzulli scowled before knocking, sharply, with the police knock that every drug dealer from Staten Island to the Bronx knew.

It seemed to do the trick. "Who's there?" a voice called from the other side of the door.

At least the kid was home. Renzulli was going to be one pissed cop if he had to carry the damn soup all the way back downstairs. God knew he wasn't going to eat it. "Who do ya think? Open up."

Several beats of silence followed, then: "Sarge?"

And this was a Harvard graduate. He rolled his eyes. "It hasn't been that long since you've heard these dulcet tones, kid. You gonna make me stand out here all night?"

"I'm... contagious."

"Eh, I'm too mean to get sick. Open the door, kid. I brought you some of that nasty soup you like."

Another pause. "You should probably leave it out in the hall."

Okay, now this was getting strange. That tickling in his gut, the kind that kicked up whenever he knew he was being fed a line, was beginning to stir. It was the instinct he trusted the most, behind only the prickling of skin across the back of his neck he would get when someone was watching him. "Kid, seriously? Open the damn door."

"Fine." He heard the chain sliding back, the click of the deadbolt a moment later, and the doorknob twisted. He waited expectantly, only to see the door pull open an inch and stand ajar. "C'mon in," Jamie said from somewhere beyond it.

Wow, he was really feeling the love. "Very courteous," he griped, and pushed the door open with his shoulder. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Jamie already across the apartment, disappearing into the tiny hall. From his past visits, Renzulli knew the small corner contained only a storage closet and a bathroom. "Got the runs, kid?"

A door slammed. "Uh, yeah."

"Nice," he replied with forced joviality as his eyes scanned the room. He couldn't shake his faint but growing suspicion that something was going on here, more than just a little case of the flu. That whole Blue Templar nonsense from the year before had proven to him that Reagan could definitely keep a secret. And it wasn't dampening his theory now to see the bed in the corner neatly made, and the cushions plumped on the sofa next to it. No spent tissues cluttered the floor or trash can. "So, uh, how ya feeling?"

"Still kinda rough," Jamie called back. "You can leave the soup on the counter. Thanks for bringing it."

He shucked his hat onto the dining room table and walked over to the small corner kitchen, still looking around. The apartment was a modern loft and designed as an open concept, so there wasn't much that wasn't already out on full display. Everything looked suspiciously in order, even for a neatnik like Jamie Reagan. He thumped the bowl of soup down on the counter, then hesitated when he saw another item next to the sink.

Two items, to be exact. Two cell phones.

_Two_ cell phones?

He recognized one, but not the other. And there was nobody else here unless the kid had somebody stashed in the bathroom with him, and that would be an entirely different conversation. Renzulli eyed the closed door with suspicion. "How's it going in there, kid?"

"How do you think?"

"I see the flu hasn't hurt any of your snappy comebacks."

A sigh. "Sarge..."

"I know, I know. You're sick, I'm unannounced. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd swing by to check on ya, that's all." As he spoke, he leaned an elbow on the counter and picked up the unfamiliar phone, squinting at the tiny buttons. "When do you think you'll be up to getting back to work?"

"Hopefully in the next day or two."

"Must be a hell of a flu." He smiled as he managed to access the menu, then checked the general settings. Detective Renzulli, at your service.

"Yeah, it's been a long week. Hey, sorry I'm not better company than this, Sarge."

"Don't sweat it, Reagan." Phone in his hand, he sauntered into the tiny hallway, facing the closed bathroom door. "Actually, just one question for you before I hit the road?"

"Shoot."

"Who the hell is..." He checked the phone again, just to be sure. "Jimmy Riordan?"

Silence, and Renzulli smirked, waiting for the bathroom door to open and his shocked partner to emerge.

...

Well, apparently he was going to be waiting a while. "Kid? Did you hear me?"

When Jamie spoke again, his voice was sullen, spiked with frustration. "You ought to know better than to go snooping around in other people's stuff, Sarge."

"How do you think I get all my intel?"

"Whatever you're looking at, you need to stop. Right now."

Renzulli snorted. "Big words, coming from somebody who won't get off the toilet."

"I'm serious."

"So am I, kid. You gonna come out of there and talk to me now?"

The doorknob twisted, and Renzulli folded his arms.

He was surprised by what he saw.

The young man who stepped out of the small bathroom didn't look angry, or ashamed, or panicked, as he would expect from someone caught in a lie. He was wearing resignation like a sackcloth, shoulders slumped and posture defeated. His head was down, face lost in shadow.

Renzulli frowned. "Reagan."

Jamie looked up.

This time, Renzulli was gobsmacked by what he saw.

The kid's face was a mosaic of bruises, fading purple rioting with reds and blues around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. It was the fading evidence of a brutal attack, a wicked beating that made Renzulli's stomach flip over on itself. Shock dropped his jaw and loosened his hands, and the cell phone fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter.

Jamie glanced down at the phone as it skittered to a stop halfway between them. "Be careful with that," he warned, and bent down with a visible wince to retrieve it. His free hand went to his ribs as he stood, as though he were physically holding himself together.

"Kid," Renzulli managed. "What the hell is this?"

Jamie waved a hand at the couch. "Go sit down," he ordered quietly, and Renzulli stepped back, his eyes still wide. "I'll explain."

"Do you need ice?" He was still stuck on the damage to the kid's face.

Jamie smiled ruefully. "Too late for that to do much good."

Renzulli managed to get himself onto the sofa without falling down, and Jamie followed, picking up his wallet from the bookshelf as he approached. Renzulli saw the brace on his left arm. "Jesus, Jamie. What are you into?"

The kid lowered himself carefully onto a corner of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He flipped open the wallet with his good hand and extended it. "This is my undercover identity from OCCB, Sarge," he said, tapping the ID with his thumb. "Jimmy Riordan."

Renzulli glanced at the driver's license for only a moment before returning his startled gaze to Jamie. "What are you talking about? Since when are you involved with the bureau?"

Jamie sighed. "Do you remember when we did the undercover work at those bars last fall, investigating whether they were serving alcohol to minors?"

"Sort of." He couldn't pull his eyes away from his partner's battered face.

"I ran into a guy there named Noble Sanfino. He thought he knew me; acted like we were old buddies. He wound up OD'ing on the last night I was there." Jamie stared down at the wallet in his hands. "I got him an ambulance."

"So?"

"So, his father and uncle turned out to be captains in the Cavazerre crime family."

Renzulli blinked.

"And since Noble decided that I saved his life, OCCB saw an opportunity. I've been undercover with them ever since, running this identity. It's mainly just moonlighting as this old buddy of Noble's and seeing how far I can get into the family."

"Since last fall?" He shook his head. "Christ, kid, were you ever going to tell me about it?"

"I wish I could've. But the bureau didn't want me breathing a word, you know?"

Renzulli rubbed his hands over his face. "You're telling me that you've been running undercover work with the OCCB _and_ you've been on patrol with me. For months."

Jamie nodded.

"Do you realize what a miracle it is that you're still alive?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "New York's a big city."

Renzulli pinned him down with a sharp look of warning. "And you're the son of the PC. Not to mention you got your mug plastered on the front of the New York Daily News last year, in uniform. Or had you forgotten about that?"

"Well, nobody's made me yet."

"Yeah?" Renzulli gestured at Jamie's face. "Care to tell me how you ended up as somebody's punching bag?"

The kid tossed the wallet unceremoniously onto the coffee table. "I pulled a couple of shifts in a boiler room last week. Managed to sneak out the client list, but this is what I got for my troubles. My cover's still intact, though. They beat me up on principle, not because I'm a cop."

"Yeah, because if they knew you were a cop you'd be at the bottom of the East River right now." Renzulli shook his head in disbelief. "So you've been laying low until you can show your face in public again?"

"That's the plan."

"Whose plan? Your pop's?"

"He helped pull the strings, but it was mostly Detective Kramer at the bureau."

Renzulli leaned back, trying to take it all in. His head was spinning, and Jamie seemed to notice. He leaned back as well, his posture unconsciously mirroring his sergeant's. "I'm sorry, Sarge."

"For what?"

"Not saying anything."

He sighed, deeply. "Well, you couldn't, kid. I understand that. Hell, I did a little undercover work in my day. I know how it is."

Jamie tilted his head, expression going curious. "What kind of work did you do?"

"Eh, nothing much. Nothing special. My problem was getting pulled down too deep, y'know? Forgetting who I was supposed to be." He shook his head ruefully at the memory. "Luckily, I had a good sergeant myself who helped keep me grounded. You got somebody looking out for you, kid?"

He shrugged. "I'm getting by, I guess."

Fantastic. He knew OCCB could be scatterbrained about their backup; hell, everybody knew that, but it was unacceptable now. "What's your pop think about all this?"

"He's proud. A little nervous, but proud."

Proud. The kid's whole demeanor changed when he said the word. His shoulders lifted, his eyes brightened. Christ, it was Joe all over again. "Listen... you're doing good work, yeah? And there's nothing wrong with that. But you need to be careful, and I mean _careful_. These crime families are some pretty serious players."

"I know."

"Do you?" he snapped. It came out harsher than he meant, but that probably was a good thing, as the kid eyed him for a moment before turning his bruised face down to his hands.

Abruptly, Renzulli stood and took a step over to the windows, glaring down at Chinatown. He'd been on the force six years before he went undercover. The kid was working on year number two, for Christ's sake. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner, who looked grim. "You want out?"

"Huh?"

"You want out of this, I'll get you out. Just say the word, Reagan."

"Did you make bureau chief when I wasn't looking?"

Renzulli turned to face him, folding his arms. "I mean it."

"I'm fine," Jamie protested, brows furrowed. "I'm handling it fine."

"No offense, kid, but you don't look like you're handling it at all."

Jamie scoffed, and waved an idle hand at his face. "This was just the boiler boss being an ass."

"Is that what Danny thought when he got a look at you?"

Jamie had least had the decency to grimace at that. "Danny... wasn't thrilled."

"Yeah, and I'm sure your pop wasn't, ether."

"He wanted me to quit," Jamie admitted.

"Yeah? Why didn't you take him up on that?"

"Because I like what I'm doing," he replied. His chin took a stubborn jut. "I'm making a difference. And this is making me a better cop."

Renzulli shook his head. "Kid, you've been on the force a year, for God's sake. You gotta become a cop before you learn how to be a good one."

Jamie sighed. "You're either gonna respect me in this or you're not, Sarge."

And there it was. Renzulli glanced back at the window for a moment and offered up a quick prayer for strength before stepping close to his partner, leaning into his personal space. Jamie's expression was apprehensive, but he didn't flinch back when Renzulli reached out and cupped the kid's jaw in his hand. "You always have my respect, Reagan. Don't ever question that." Jamie's eyes remained on his, searching, questioning. He patted the kid's cheek gently and pulled away. "But you ain't gonna get my support."

Jamie was on his feet in an instant. "What does that mean?"

Renzulli took a step back. "It means I think you're making a mistake."

He hesitated. "You've always said, mistakes are part of the job. We're going to make them because we're human. But the important thing is that we make them right."

"So?"

"So, maybe you don't agree with what I'm doing, but I'm trying to make a difference here, Sarge. I think I'm doing it for the right reason."

He sighed. "What do you want me to say, Reagan?"

Jamie looked him in the eye. "That you've got my back."

Renzulli couldn't help but smile at that. "Did you have mine the last time I screwed up?"

"I... yeah."

"Then yeah."

The kid frowned. "I thought you said..."

"I don't _support_ you in this. I don't think you're ready, and I think your face proves it. But if you're determined to do it, then yeah, I'll have your back." He stepped over to the door, grabbing his hat. "Take your couple of days, kid. Get your face looking normal again so I can watch the girls swoon over you on the street corners. And then get your ass back in my car, 'cause I'm gonna be on you like a rat on a Cheeto from now on. I've spent a year training you, Reagan. I've got way too much invested in you now." He smiled. "I gotta get back out there. Eat your soup."

"You can't let anybody know that you know about this, Sarge."

"I don't intend to. But that doesn't mean I ain't gonna look out for you. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it." He looked relieved.

"I'll call ya, kid."

But once he was in the hallway, Renzulli leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, the air moving out of his body in a single, deflating sigh. To call Jamie Reagan a magnet for trouble might have been putting it mildly. First the Blue Templar crap, and now an undercover gig that detectives with five times the seniority rarely got. If he was gonna keep the kid in one piece, he had his work cut out for him.

_I've spent a year training you, Reagan. I've got way too much invested in you now._

Good God. These Reagans were going to be the death of him after all.

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><p><strong>Author's Note -<strong> All right, I kinda screwed up with this one. Here's AU #1 - we're breaking from canon in this piece since Renzulli now knows about Jamie's undercover work. When I first started working on this story, I expected to have it done before any new episodes aired to prove my story lines null and void. Instead, we're overlapping, but oh well. And AU #2 - this is the big one - remember how I said that I'm still catching up on some of the early first-season episodes? Well, I just caught the one where Frank tells Jamie that he's got a tougher time of it as a rookie than his brothers did, because when Danny and Joe joined the force, their dad wasn't PC. Whoops! And when I looked into it further, I realized that made perfect sense... I had forgotten just how much older than Jamie Joe was (six years, for anybody counting). But you know what? I'd already written this, so I decided, my world, my rules. :D Hopefully you rolled with all this and enjoyed it anyway - thanks for reading!

Next up...

_**Scene #7 -** Frank isn't the only one unable to sleep._


	8. Chapter 8

**In the Moonlight: The Life We Chose (Ain't Too Many Happy Endings)**

**Author's Note:** This is a re-imagining of a scene from episode 2x15, "The Life We Chose." It is cross-posted as chapter seven of my ongoing story, "In the Moonlight," as well as a stand-alone one-shot, since it works quite well for both. Contains major episode spoilers, obviously. The title of this story is gratuitously stolen from a Nas song. Also, a word to my fellow Jamie-lovers - keep the faith, friends. Keep the faith.

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><p><em><strong>Scene #7<strong> - Frank isn't the only one unable to sleep._

Danny Reagan was used to long hours and tough days, so when he finally dropped into bed for a few treasured hours of rest, he rarely dreamed. He knew a lot of his fellow cops had trouble with dreams, and he knew several in particular who couldn't even get to sleep without help from Jose Cuervo or Jack Daniels. For him, though, sleep had always come hard and fast, pulling him under to a place so deep that neither dreams nor nightmares could find him.

On most nights, anyway.

But on this night, Danny dreamed.

...

_"Reagan and Curatola are gonna be your ghosts tonight, all right?"_

It was quarter to twelve. In the shadow of the George Washington bridge, lit in cool tones of blue and green against the backdrop of a cold night and skyscrapers washed in gold, Danny stood alone, his knit hat pulled low over his ears, his jacket undone. He listened, because that was all he'd been given clearance to do. The unit commander had been explicitly clear about that, in no uncertain terms and expletive-studded language. Don't interfere with this case, Reagan. It's your turf and that's the only reason you and your partner are here. You've gotta let him work, Reagan. Don't get in the way.

The commander was an old friend of the family. He'd served as a sergeant under Frank Reagan himself back in the day.

He knew Danny too well.

_"Next corner, make a right." "Up here on Pulaski?" "Yeah."_

Danny had tried to talk him out of it, but he'd known it was hopeless before he ever opened his mouth. You just couldn't talk a cop down from undercover work once he'd gotten a taste for it. Plenty of guys never made it past the initial panic of trying to be someone they weren't, and feeling sure that anyone and everyone could see straight through them. But the ones who did, who got inside and got smooth, got good - it was like a first sip of spring water on a scorching summer day. Talk until you're blue in the face and make all the sense in the world, and you're still not going to pull that gleam of self-assurance out of their eyes. There was nothing thoughtful about it. He would have just as much luck trying to talk a cat out of stalking birds.

_"They must've turned down one of these streets..." "Yeah, but which one?"_

He remembered sneaking out of bed once when he was about five years old because he heard his mother on the telephone, her voice high-pitched and afraid, spitting questions in rapid-fire volleys. He had crept down the staircase until he heard the television, and the solemn voices talking about a police officer who had been shot. At the time, the only police officer Danny had known had been his own father, and he had crawled back to bed and pulled the covers over his head and cried until he had to stop, because crying wasn't going to make anything better. His nightmares that night had been about his father, dying over and over again.

_"I'm not getting them in the walkie, Jack." "Okay, okay. Where the hell are they?"_

Two gunshots. One, two. Firecrackers in the darkness.

_"They're hit, Jack. They're hit!"_

Down on his knees, Danny wrenched open the passenger door and barely caught the limp body that had been slumped against it. "Come here, come here," he gasped, pulling the dead weight up in his arms with a strength he didn't know he possessed. "C'mon, c'mon kid, don't do this."

He pressed two fingers into the warm, exposed neck. He knew where the jugular vein ran, where to find a pulse.

There was nothing.

Maybe he was doing something wrong. He was doing everything right, but maybe he was doing something wrong.

Danny stared down into the still face, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. He looked so young. He _was_ so young. "Don't do this to me," he whispered.

Nothing.

Jackie was screaming into her radio behind him, her voice cracking. The winds lifting off the Hudson were cold and crisp, stinging his face with a thousand needle pricks. A larger spike of pain, silver and sharp, corkscrewed into his bones, warning him of what was coming, the inevitable truth lying pliant against his chest.

No. He wouldn't stop. He couldn't give up. "Look at me," he begged, and adjusted his hold, pulling the limp body closer to himself. He smelled blood now, thick and pungent. "Can you hear me?"

It was unreal.

It was a beautiful night, prettier than any New York City night had the right to be.

And his little brother was dead in his arms.

_Danny still had every birthday card Jamie, Joe and Erin had ever given him. Nobody knew because he had a reputation to uphold, but he kept them in a box along with one of his mother's rosaries and his honorable discharge papers, and he never looked at them but it made him feel warm and sort of goofy inside to know they were there._

_After Joe had died, Jamie started sending him two cards every year, and the second one was never signed with a name but with a big, exaggerated smiley face instead. It was probably the stupidest thing on earth and yet it always made him grin. He didn't know why._

"Jamie, you hear me? Don't, don't..." Danny's voice broke around the words, falling to pieces of despair.

_"I know you don't like it, Danny... Dad's not a big fan, either. But it's good work. I like it. I'm good at it. I feel like I'm making a difference when I do this. Isn't that what being a cop is all about, making a difference?"_

Danny's eyes squeezed shut as if he'd been slapped in the face, and grief heaved within him, sucking the air from his lungs. He curled his right hand into a fist and struck the back of the passenger seat once, twice, as an inhuman sound wrenched itself from his chest. "No! No!"

It changed nothing.

When he pulled his hand back, it was covered with blood. Danny knew it was not his own.

And in the horror born from the enormity of what had just been lost, Danny put his arms around Jamie's body and sobbed.

...

He awoke with a jolt, the world lurching around him, and for a sick, ebbing moment he had no idea where he was. The darkness closed in, and he pulled his arms around himself defensively.

_Jamie. Where was Jamie?_

He swallowed, fighting down a sudden swell of nausea.

_A nightmare._ It was a goddamned nightmare.

Throwing back the covers, Danny stood and retrieved a rumpled T-shirt from the floor. He pulled it on quickly, moving to remind himself that he was alive and trying to ward off the sudden chill that struck him in the darkness, chilling him straight through his skin.

It had been a long time since he'd had such a dream, and even though the details were already beginning to blur, he couldn't shake the coldness that coated his stomach like a sickness, like slime.

He glanced at Linda, but she slept on, undisturbed by his movements. It was just as well.

Rubbing his hands briskly up and down his arms, Danny slipped from the quiet bedroom, checking the time as he went. 2:29 a.m.

He padded into the kitchen, running a glass of tap water from the faucet. He downed it in a few short gulps, letting it flush out the nerves in his stomach. Setting the glass down on the counter, he walked toward the living room, hesitant. Going back to bed was not an option, and he didn't feel much like television either. His choices were increasingly looking like staring out the window or sitting in the dark, and neither held much appeal at the moment.

"Daddy?"

He jumped, pivoting around. A small figure in white was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. He squinted to make it out. "Jack?"

His oldest son nodded. He was dressed in flannel pajamas, skinny legs drawn up to his chest, chin resting on his knees. "Yeah."

Danny stepped over to him quickly, dropping into a crouch. "What are you doing up, kiddo?"

"I couldn't sleep," the little boy confessed, then paused. "What are _you_ doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," Danny said with a rueful grin. "Or, couldn't stay asleep, at least."

"Yeah," Jack said softly. "I... had a bad dream."

Danny swallowed, batting away the demons that fluttered to life at the words. "Well, let's see. You got an A on your spelling test at school, right?" Jack nodded. "So that was good. And, uh... mom said that you got to play outside for a few hours after you finished your homework. And I know your favorite show was on tonight. Right?" Another nod. "So that sounds like a pretty good day to me."

"Yeah."

"What kind of bad dream could you have after a good day like that, huh?"

Jack sighed. It made him sound much older than his years. "I was thinking about you."

Danny swallowed again in a throat gone suddenly dry. "What about me?"

Jack ducked his head, pressing his forehead into his wrists. "And Uncle Jamie. And Uncle Joe."

A tendril of dread tickled the back of Danny's neck. "Okay."

"I dreamed that you were gone, daddy."

His heart lurched, and without thought, Danny leaned forward and gathered his son to himself. Thin arms wound around his neck with surprising strength, and he let himself bask in that for a moment. "Hey, kiddo," he whispered into his son's hair. "It was just a bad dream, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

His son's voice choked up. "Promise?"

"I promise I'll always do everything I can to come home to you and Sean and your mom," he replied. It was the same vow he made to Linda every day; the same vow he carried in his heart. "You have my word on that."

Jack drew back, his expression disappointed. "But that's not the same."

"I know," he sighed. "I know."

And Danny Reagan did the only thing a father could do at 2:29 a.m.

He held his little boy close, and tried his best to push the nightmares away.

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><p>Remember, reviews = love! Next up, the conclusion of "In the Moonlight..."<p>

_**Scene #8** - It started with marbles, proceeded to rocks, and finally four-year-old Jamie was discovered devouring his own Crayola crayons. What could possibly possess a kid to swallow everything from buttons to hair clips? Sounds like a job for future detectives Danny (age 14) and Joe (age 10) Reagan!_


End file.
